


A Voice in the Dark

by lillianschild



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Alternate Series 7, F/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillianschild/pseuds/lillianschild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.
> 
>  A/N: this fic is my own version of Series 7. I will probably update it once a month, considering my busy work schedule, and try to pen a one-shot in between to continue my Guy & Marian Acrostic Series.

**PROLOGUE**  
  
 _DECEMBER 2000_  
  
A thick blanket of snow covered the pavement under the headlights of the black AUDI; their glow the only sliver of light in the pitch-black suburban street.  
  
The chauffeur pulled up next to an abandoned warehouse, put on his fur-lined leather gloves and stepped out into the harsh winter night, looking for some makeshift shelter to give the occupants of the car a few minutes of privacy.  
  
No word had passed between the two men sitting in the back seat since leaving the underground garage of Thames House but now that silence had to be broken.  
  
“I know this isn't the best time for you to be away from home. I can assign another officer. You needn't worry about an unfavourable report to blemish your impeccable record.”  
  
“I don't want any preferential treatment. Someone has to do this and you know I'm the best equipped for this mission,” replied the younger man with a slow smile.  
  
“You're aware that if you get caught...”  
  
“You don't have to spell it out, Harry. I'm familiar with the phrase total deniability.”  
  
“I wish there were some other way to find the mole in our ranks and the puppeteer in the shadows. I don't feel comfortable gambling with the life of one of my officers.”  
  
“I knew the responsibilities I took upon myself when I entered the service.This is what we do every day. I'm glad the rest of Section D can't hear you or else they'd think you're going soft,” chuckled the lanky senior officer. “You don't need to worry about me, Harry. That's something a father might do, and I've already got one...”  
  
“I'll see that he lacks nothing if this doesn't turn out the way we expect. I give you my word.”  
  
“Thanks.There's one more thing...”  
  
“Name it.”  
  
“If I don't come back... or if... anything were to happen to me... don't tell my wife the truth about who I was. Tell her to go on with her life. She deserves to be happy and raise the family she's always wanted.”  
  
“That family can be yours too. Just come back alive.”  
  
“I've deluded myself thinking I could have what others do, a normal life separate from all the lies. But you know better than me there's rarely a happy ending for people like you and I.”  
  
“That doesn't mean we'll ever outgrow the need of someone to care for us.”  
  
A brief uncomfortable silence fell upon them.  
  
“It's time, Harry. My plane leaves in less than two hours.”  
  
“Yes, it's time,” the older man said finally, rolling down the window to summon the chauffeur and seal the fate of his most trusted officer.  
  
  
 **CHAPTER I**  
  
 _NOVEMBER 2008_  
  
“Shut it down and bring your coat,” said Adam Carter's voice, breaking through Annabelle Reed's concentration on the dossier displayed on her screen. “Harry's asked for you. It appears your particular expertise is required.”  
  
“Do you know what it is about?” she asked the chief of Section D as she closed the file and gathered her things.  
  
“No, I only have orders for us to meet him at the helipad. I expect he'll brief us on the way.”  
  
The ride to the rooftop was done in complete silence, but Annabelle couldn't dispel the feeling that Adam knew more than he'd told her or, at the very least, there was something which had put him on edge.  
  
The moment she pushed the door open and they stepped out on the roof the icy wind took her breath away. Adam led the way and she followed him, burrowing into her coat, never looking up in order to protect herself from the biting cold.  
  
The interior of the helicopter wasn't much warmer but, at least, it shielded them from the lashing wind. And the fact that Sir Harry Pearce was coming along for the ride comforted her somehow. The Head of Section D rarely worked as an in-field agent these days, so the chances of this mission ending up in a shooting or with one of them dead tonight were definitely slimmer. She loved her job but, at the end of the day, she appreciated being able to come back home, pour herself a frothy mug of cocoa and sit down with a good book.  
  
Pearce shouted some instructions to the pilot which she didn't catch. However, one quick glance at Adam's profile told her whatever their superior's words had been, they'd taken the matinée-idol-looking agent by surprise.  
  
They arrived at their destination less than half an hour later, landing on the back lawn of a secluded eighteenth-century Hall.  
  
“That didn't take long,” she told Carter on crossing the lawn, a clear questioning tone in her voice. “We could have taken a pool car.”  
  
“Just making sure we weren't being followed.”  
  
“I assumed that much. What is this place? I've never seen an MI5 safe house that looked anything like this.”  
  
“Borrowed for the occasion. An old friend of Harry's on holiday in Barbados.”  
  
The house was eerily quiet as they followed Harry into a spacious room which turned out to be a library lined from floor to ceiling with books. There was not a window in sight. Clearly, the head of MI5's Counter-terrorism Department wanted to make sure their presence was kept a secret.  
  
“Please, take a seat,” Sir Harry invited them, walking to the bar and removing the stopper from a decanter of Scotch. “Shall I pour you a tumbler?”  
  
“Two fingers,” said Adam.  
  
“Not for me, Harry. Thanks,” added Annabelle, taking off her coat and stuffing her gloves in a pocket.  
  
“Good. I need you clear-headed for the difficult task ahead. I'm afraid you won't be going home tonight.”  
  
“That's OK. There's no pet waiting for my return,” she smiled wryly.  
  
Harry allowed himself a pause to study the beautiful woman before him. Whereas Ros Myers had been all sharp angles, dry humour and icy façade, Annabelle was delicate features, diplomacy and warmth; an amazing mix rare in a first-rate officer serving in an organization populated by cold-blooded bastards such as him.  
  
“A little over seven years ago we identified and eradicated a mole within MI5. This was before your time, of course, but you must have heard about it. Well, it appears we messed up and someone's paid a high price for our mistake. That mole was just the tip of the iceberg. There was a sleeper in our ranks and he or she seems to have been activated.”  
  
“Are there any leads?” interrupted Adam, setting down the half-empty tumbler on a side table.  
  
“No. That's the reason you're here tonight. Last Friday I was contacted by the new FSB head of operations in London. He offered to hand us over an asset in exchange for a Russian spy we had in our cells.The trade was sanctioned by the Home Secretary as a sign of good will on the part of our government. Unfortunately, the meeting didn't go as planned. “  
  
It was evident Sir Harry hated being fallible. The grim expression on his face which accompanied the clenched fists he plunged into the pockets of his overcoat spoke of how hard it was for him to acknowledge such a fact.  
  
“The FSB men arrived at the rendezvous point earlier. They ambushed us, killed my chauffeur, sent a senior officer to hospital, put a bullet in my right arm and drove away with our former prisoner.”  
  
“And what about our asset? Did they hand him over?”  
  
“Oh, yes,” he replied tightly, swallowing down the rest of his drink in one big gulp. “They turned him over after torturing him and beating him within an inch of his life. There's no doubt they left him for dead at the pick-up point. That's when I knew the operation we thought to have dismantled was still very much alive. Whatever information our asset has they clearly didn't want us to find out.”  
  
“But why didn't they put a bullet in his head then? Why run the risk of us getting him alive?”  
  
“They needed him for the exchange. They knew he was a big card to play to ensure the trade. They didn't count on him surviving this long. We haven't got much time left... He's going to die, but he seems to be determined to make his death worthwhile and that's why you're here Annabelle.”  
  
“I don't understand.”  
  
“You're here to debrief him.”  
  
“What?” she gasped. “You mean he's here? Shouldn't he be getting medical attention?”  
  
“There's a doctor seeing to him right now, trying to make him as comfortable as possible and ensuring he hangs on until you can take it all down. It's what he wants, and I'll give it to him.”  
  
“But why me?” she asked incredulously.  
  
“You're the only Section D member who's fluent in Russian.”  
  
“Russian?”  
  
“Yes. He can't speak English. Or, at least, he can't seem to remember what it sounds like in his mouth. We need that information, Annabelle, and it's locked in his mind. He's got photographic memory, the most outstanding I've ever seen in my life. He memorised the information in Russian so it must be easier for him to deliver it in the same language. You're the best we have and I trust you, and there aren't a lot of people in the Section I trust 100% right now.”  
  
The double doors to the library opened after a cursory knock and a sober-looking man with a stethoscope in his left hand walked in.  
  
“Is he ready?” asked Pearce meeting the grey-haired man's eyes.  
  
“As ready as he'll ever be. No amount of local anaesthetics is going to make any real difference considering the circumstances. I'm not at all comfortable with this. I hope his agony's worth it, Sir Harry.”  
  
“Thank you, doctor. Please, stand by. Annabelle...”  
  
“Where is he?” she asked the medicine man as she stood up on slightly wobbly legs.  
  
“Follow me. He's in a room at the end of the corridor on the first floor,” replied the doctor, opening the door for her to walk out of the library.  
  
Annabelle grabbed the laptop she'd brought along and made her way to the grand staircase already dreading the delicate task she'd been assigned.  
  
“His throat has sustained some trauma so don't expect him to use more than a whisper to communicate. He's also asked to keep the lights off. I hope you won't mind, but he insisted when he found out he was going to be debriefed by a woman.”  
  
“It's all right,” she replied quietly. “I can manage with the light from the screen. Will you stay in the room?”  
  
“Apparently, I haven't got enough clearance to witness the interview. I'll be outside if you need me,” he told Annabelle, squeezing her arm gently as a gesture of understanding.  
  
It was nice to feel she wasn't actually alone to cope with the distress she was experiencing now that she was a step away from doing what she would do, what she knew had to be done to protect the lives and the integrity of the service; help to sacrifice a life to save hundreds. To ease her conscience somehow, she prayed the end really justified the means on this particular occasion.  
  
She turned the knob of the bedroom door and, taking a deep breath to muster the necessary courage, walked in. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust and be able to see the exquisite roll-top desk near the bed, whose occupant she barely made out as a mound in the dark since the dimmed light from the corridor only illuminated enough for her not to bump into any furniture.  
  
Approaching the desk she set down her laptop and got everything ready for the debriefing, trying to lock away any qualms she might have in one of the dozen compartments which had helped her keep sane in a crazy world such as hers.  
  
“I'm ready when you are,” she said softly in Russian to the voice in the dark, for that was what he should be to her, just a voice.  
  
The voice that answered was low and raspy as if it'd grown hoarse from screaming and, although it wasn't louder than a whisper, it stirred her in a mysterious way, one which went beyond sympathy and that made her loathe herself. This was a dying man who had gone through unknown horrors and was going through hell even now, hanging onto life out of sheer determination to give them the intelligence they wanted. She was a professional and he deserved better from her.  
  
Keeping up with the flow of information was a real struggle. It amazed her how much he'd been able to memorise and how detailed his account was. No wonder the Russians wanted him dead.  
  
“I'm sorry,” she apologised softly, not knowing if she was referring to the sudden numbness that had seized her fast-typing fingers or to the images her mind's eye had conjured up, knowing how given to electric shock and water-boarding the Russians were to have prisoners break. “I'm sorry,” she repeated louder after clearing her throat, “I've lagged behind. Would you mind if I went over the last thing I registered?”  
  
“Of course not... Got carried away. I'll slow down... My mouth's parched... anyway... May I have … a glass of... water, please?” he replied, making use of impeccable manners.  
  
Annabelle couldn't help but admire the man for his ability to behave in a gentlemanly and civilised way in such unfair and cruel circumstances.  
  
“It was thoughtless of me not to have brought a jug when I came in. I'll ask the doctor if you can have some now...” she told him, getting up from the chair and walking to the door.  
  
“Let him drink as much as he wants and call me if there's anything else I might do,” the doctor instructed her once he'd seen to his patient's needs.  
  
No sooner had the door clicked shut than the debriefing began again. Only this time she could feel him watching her as she transcribed his words, a different nuance attached to his voice.  
  
The urge to unglue her eyes from the screen and catch a glimpse of the man wrapped in shadows and lying prone on the bed was turning hard to resist. She accepted the futility of pretending he could be just a disembodied voice in the dark to her; he was already too real.  
  
“I need... a moment,” he gasped, clearly fighting against pain.  
  
“Do you want me to...?”  
  
“No, it's OK. Just... give me a moment... and we'll resume.”  
  
Annabelle tried to uncoil her tensed muscles surreptitiously but nothing seemed to escape his notice.  
  
“Why don't you... take a short break too? You could use it,” he added hoarsely.  
  
Hearing the concern for her in his voice only succeeded at making the lump in her throat bigger and the burning in her eyes more pronounced. She could feel the tears start to well up in her eyes. She had to pull a Rosalind Myers out of the bag or disgrace the spy race by showing she was just human. She was expected to behave in a professional and detached way, to be a cold-blooded automaton in a masculine world.  
  
Something told her the man in the shadows would understand, that he would experience what she was if their roles were to be reversed. And yet, it wouldn't do to let him see her so rattled or read on her face how much it pained her to witness his agony; it took a lot of courage to survive what he had without breaking and to be here tonight in this room. She owed it to him to face the end... his end... with integrity.  
  
Swallowing the large lump in her throat, she focused on the transcript, feeling his eyes trained on her face once again.  
  
“I'm ready when you are,” she said in a voice which sounded shaky to her own ears.  
  
“Will you tell me your name?” he asked her softly after a brief pause.  
  
Revealing her real identity to anyone outside The Grid went against everything she'd been taught during training. Her name was the only thing which was hers, the one thing that showed she existed outside the walls of Thames House, the one part of hers which felt real.  
  
What difference would it make now to hold onto the rules? Anonymity might be an armour, but this man had bared himself to her, a complete stranger, in ways which went beyond sharing a name. It felt only natural to do this little something for him.  
  
“Annabelle.”  
  
“Annabelle. Gracious beauty. It was many... and many a year ago... In a kingdom by the sea... That a maiden there lived... whom you may know... By the name of Annabel Lee … “  
  
“And this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me,” she finished in her mind.  
  
“I'm ready now. We're almost... done.”  
  
Annabelle didn't know how long it went on but, amidst broken inhalations and even a fainting spell which required the doctor's intervention, they managed to wrap things up.  
  
“Thank you... Annabelle,” he said in the end, his voice barely audible.  
  
What was one supposed to say now? Were there any words that could provide real comfort to someone who knew would in all probability be dead before the night was through? Somehow she knew nothing she might say would be appropriate.  
  
She started to pack up her equipment and thanked the blessed darkness that enveloped them now that the laptop had been put away because she could pretend she was no longer at a disadvantage.  
  
He could slip into the final release now, one that she found herself hoping it'd arrive soon to deliver him.  
  
Using the thread of light which filtered under the door she found her way to the exit only to stop with her hand on the knob. Setting her things down, she retraced her steps to where the man she felt joined to by some invisible force was lying.  
  
Her fingers shook as she stretched her arms and unclasped the golden chain with the crucifix that she wore round her neck. And then, with extreme care as if the slightest noise could shatter the comforting silence, she left it on the night table and walked away.  
  
Sir Harry Pearce and Adam Carter were still in the library when she got to the ground floor.  
  
“Did you get it all? Is it as valuable as we thought?” were Harry's first questions as he handed her a tumbler of Scotch.  
  
God! She'd never thought she'd ever hate her boss and mentor the way she did now  
  
“I know how difficult it must have been,” he added to fill in the pregnant silence.  
  
“Do you?” she glared at the Head of Section D. “You'll find everything you need in this pendrive,” she told Adam, handing him the memory stick.  
  
“Take tomorrow off, Annabelle. Adam, would you mind seeing her home?”  
  
“Of course not, Harry. Shall we?”  
  
“I'm sorry, Annabelle,” said Harry as both senior officers reached the French windows opening onto the grounds.  
  
“It's not me you should apologise to.”  
  
Once the helicopter had taken off and she cast one last glance at the Hall, she felt the tears fall unchecked down her cheeks. A brave man would die tonight and he deserved to be grieved. There would be time to wear her mask of control again, for now she would allow herself to be human again.

  
  
 **A/N 2** : The excerpt of poetry quoted by Lucas belongs to Edgar Allan Poe's “Annabel Lee” .


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

Two days after the debriefing, Annabelle was back on The Grid taking part in a meeting convened by the Head of Section D; only a small group was present, those she assumed were amongst Harry's most trusted.  
  
“How and where exactly did this asset get the intel?” asked Edwards, the oldest senior officer in the room. “This kind of information couldn't have been stored just in one location.”  
  
“Maybe he got it from different sources and then mentally assembled it,” Annabelle suggested. She was the only person in the room who was aware of the asset's prodigious mind at work, but nobody except Harry and Adam knew of her role in the exchange of information. Pearce had asked both officers to keep things under wraps, and she'd follow his order to the letter.  
  
The meeting broke up half an hour later and she stayed behind, waiting patiently for the rest of the group to leave so that she could have a word with Harry in private.  
  
“I've told you everything I know, Annabelle.”  
  
“I'm not asking you to tell me who he was. I just want to know if... He was kind to me,” she swallowed the lump which was lodged in her throat. “That night... did he...?”  
  
“Shortly after you left. The end wasn't painful; that much I can promise you. The doctor made sure he got enough morphine to numb the pain. There wasn't much else he could do... the damage was too great. I'm aware this might sound callous, Annabelle, but it was for the best. I would have welcomed my deliverance had I been in his shoes,” he replied after a brief pause.  
  
Wasn't that what she'd actually prayed for on leaving his bedroom- that he could be delivered of his agony and find rest at last? It was the most humane thing to wish for a man who was suffering the way he had.  
  
Still, there was something about the way Sir Harry had recited the events which didn't ring true. She couldn't put her finger on it, but a feeling in her gut told her that not everything her superior and mentor had shared was the truth. Could it be he'd encouraged the doctor to speed up the patient´s deliverance? And if that were the case, would she blame him?  
  
“Thanks for answering my question,” she said quietly, getting up and grabbing her notes to return to her station.  
  
He was dead and life went on. New threats put the nation on the rack every day and it was up to them to ensure the world was a safer place. New names were added to the Memorial Wall at Thames House on a regular basis, unknown to the world, anonymous like the voice in the dark which still rang in her ears.  
  
Although she doubted she'd ever forget, there was a lot going on and she needed to keep focused; too much depended on it.  
  
  
MAY 2009  
  
“Adam Carter's disappeared,” Edwards informed her one morning when she was pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee.  
  
“What?” she exclaimed, spilling part of the hot beverage and burning her hand in the process.  
  
“Careful,” he said with a frown, grabbing the mug for her to wipe her desk with some tissues. “You should put some butter on that.”  
  
“I'll survive. What's that about Adam disappearing? I thought he was on leave to spend some time with Wes and his in-laws.”  
  
“Apparently he never made it. His father-in-law got in touch with Harry and the Boss sent Jo and Ben to his flat. It appears the entry had been forced. Adam wasn't there but... they found his blood on the scene.”  
  
“My God,” she gasped, plopping down in her swivel chair.  
  
She sat stunned for a few moments trying to get her bearings again and then knocked at Harry's door before entering his office.  
  
“You've heard?” he asked on seeing her blanched face.  
  
“Is it true? Is he dead?”  
  
“We don't know yet. At first glance everything looked fine when Jo and Ben searched the flat. That is until they noticed some blood spots on the kitchen floor, a few cabinet doors open and a missing carving knife. According to our forensic team, there were definite signs of struggle and the blood found matches Adam's record.”  
  
“What about his car? He was supposed to pick Wes up and drive to Surrey to spend the weekend with his parents-in-law.”  
  
“Still in the garage.”  
  
“Was he working on something new?”  
  
“No, nothing you don't know of.”  
  
“Then... do you think... I know it might sound crazy... Do you think it could be connected with what happened that night?”  
  
“We caught the FSB sleeper six months ago, Annabelle. “  
  
“And what if Connie and the spy you caught almost eight years ago weren't the only members of Tiresias in our midst? What if he or she is still working from within and trying to find out how much we know?”  
  
“Let's not jump to conclusions. Paranoia can be a double-edged weapon.”  
  
Adam's beheaded corpse was found by some poachers a week later and it wouldn't be the last. A fortnight later Dr Delaney turned up strangled to death in his own garage.  
  
Annabelle didn't believe in coincidences. Even though the rest of Section D would never see the connection between both murders, she had no doubt Sir Harry would. Someone was hunting down whoever had been in touch with the man that had provided them with a well of information.  
  
“I'll buy you a drink,” offered Edwards, the newly-assigned Chief of Section D.  
  
“Thank you but this report should be on Harry's desk first thing in the morning.”  
  
“Rain check?”  
  
“Sure,” she smiled, taking a sip of her lukewarm coffee.  
  
“Goodnight then”  
  
“Night,” she mumbled, focusing on her monitor once again.  
  
Thames House was virtually deserted by the time she finished typing the report and putting together the dossier her boss had requested. However, there was another person who had decided to burn out the candle at both ends just like her, Sir Harry Pearce himself.  
  
Annabelle shut down the computer and, tidying up her station, knocked softly at his door.  
  
“Come in, “ he said after a brief hesitation. “I didn't expect you to be still here.”  
  
“I just wanted to finish this before tomorrow,” she replied, leaving the blue dossier on his desk. “I've gathered all the information you requested.”  
  
“Thanks. I'll have a look at it straight away.”  
  
“It isn't anything that can't wait until tomorrow, is it? You look drained, Harry. It's been a trying week. You should listen to your own advice sometimes.”  
  
“Duly noted, Miss Reed,” he smiled, taking a sip of his Scotch and opening the dossier in front of him.  
  
“See you in the morning, Harry.”  
  
“Annabelle,” he said softly and she turned around at the door. “Take care. We still might not know what's going on, but I don't want to lose another officer. Be extra careful.”  
  
She nodded and let herself out, leaving Harry with his tumbler and his favourite opera sounding in the background.  
  
Unbeknownst to Harry and the rest of the team, she'd moved out of her flat following Dr Delaney's death and checked in at a bed & breakfast in the suburbs. In addition, she now took extra precautions such as taking a different route or a shortcut through a crowded shop every morning, changing taxis several times, covering her mahogany brown hair with a kerchief or a hat and leaving The Grid on time so as to blend with the rest of the employees- a rule she'd broken only tonight.  
  
Nothing out of the ordinary had happened over the last two weeks and all the cloak-and-dagger routine was wearing her patience thin. She missed her flat, her books and her plants- she'd only taken her favourite fern with her afraid it wouldn't survive her desertion. And she was also getting tired of rotating the same wardrobe; she wasn't a fashion addict, but it wouldn't take long for her observant colleagues and boss to notice something was amiss.  
  
One evening, after a quiet dinner in a cosy family restaurant just around the corner of her temporary lodgings, she returned to her flat, sticking to her spy routine to make sure she wasn't being followed.

* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
The mobile phone vibrated on the coffee-table, stirring awake the lonely occupant of the dimly-lit living-room as he lay outstretched on the comfortable sofa. The elegant, long-fingered hand reached for the phone and picked up the call.  
  
“The pigeon's just landed,” said Tom's voice, breaking the silence. “Shall I follow through with the original plan or have you changed your mind?”  
  
“No, do it,” he replied calmly, disconnecting the phone and massaging his neck in an attempt to ease the knotted muscles.  
  
A sudden feeling of anticipation seized him, and he had to remind himself that, despite the confusing emotions the call had stirred, this was nothing but business.  
  
Taking a deep breath to calm his erratic heartbeat, he walked into the kitchen, plugged in the coffeemaker and resigned himself to wait.

* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
  
The plants she'd set in the kitchen sink were withered but still alive, so she plucked a few yellowish leaves, fixed the compost and talked to them for a little while.  
  
Nothing seemed to have been disturbed during her absence; the usual spy tricks to make sure nobody had tampered with her drawers, cupboards and desk remained in place.  
  
She'd wait until the month was over and, if nothing out of the ordinary happened, move back in. It'd be foolish to deplete her savings and live on a shoestring in order to afford a room in a bed & and breakfast, meals in a restaurant every other day and transport fares to get to work six days a week.  
  
Unzipping the bag she'd left on her bed, she packed up lingerie, a few trouser suits and even some leisure clothes just in case. Then she added some toiletries and make-up and did it up.  
  
A quarter of an hour later, having ascertained through the peephole nobody was lurking outside, she turned off the lights and stepped out into the corridor carrying her bag in one hand. Looking up and down, she closed the door and- fumbling with her keys- proceeded to lock it. It was at that moment she felt a hand grab her elbow and a wave of panic overcame her, making her delayed reaction useless, for no sooner had she pulled out her gun and started to turn around than a fist connected with her chin and knocked her unconscious.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.
> 
> A/N: this fic is my own version of Series 7. I will probably update it once a month, considering my busy work schedule, and try to pen a one-shot in between to continue my Guy & Marian Acrostic Series.
> 
> Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

  
When she came round it was to find herself lying in what she assumed was a very comfortable sofa since, although her hands were tied and a blindfold prevented her from seeing her surroundings, the lack of movement and the ample leg room meant she wasn't in the back seat or the boot of a car.  
  
Her jaw hurt and she was still a little dizzy after breathing in a moderate amount of chloroform. It was clear that whoever had seized her from her flat had wanted to make sure she wouldn't try to escape or loosen her blindfold and see enough to know where they were heading.  
  
So far she didn't have an inkling of her whereabouts, only the nagging feeling that the Russians were somehow involved in her kidnapping, that or she'd been dreaming with the voice in the dark once again.  
  
“Miss Reed?” asked a slightly accented velvety baritone she located immediately behind the sofa.  
  
Her head was pulsing and that voice with its modulated deep tone didn't help clear her already confused thoughts. Politeness wasn't what she'd have ever expected from a kidnapper.  
  
“I..” she began answering in a voice which sounded raspy and alien to her own ears. “I don't know what it is you want with me,” she added after swallowing to ease the dryness of her throat, “but this has to be some kind of mistake.”  
  
“You're Annabelle Reed, are you not?” he stated matter-of-factly.  
  
“As I told you before, you've got the wrong person,” she insisted, struggling against the pounding in her head and the barely disguised tremor in her voice.  
  
“We aren't amateurs, Annabelle. We don't make mistakes. We've been waiting a long time for you to come back home.”  
  
“We? Look, I don't know what you think I have that could interest you. I'm just a boring thirty-something with a nine-to-five job which doesn't pay that well. I don't understand what would make you hit and tie up somebody like me, unless you got a kick out of kidnapping defenceless women to have your way with them.”  
  
“I apologise for any manhandling. You took my partner by surprise; he had orders to bring you here unharmed, but I wouldn't describe you as a regular damsel in distress. And I'm not a rapist or some twisted psychopath who enjoys hurting women. You're here only to talk.”  
  
“There are more civilised ways to approach a woman for a conversation than having her kidnapped and restrained.”  
  
“I just want to ask you some questions, Miss Reed,” he told her in a soft and pleasant tone which did odd things to her stomach.   
  
She needed to take a painkiller; maybe then she'd be able to identify what it was about this man that tickled her consciousness. He had had her kidnapped and yet, there was no trace of threat in his voice. Annabelle didn't know what to make of that. If anything, it made her more jittery since that might mean he was unpredictable.  
  
The rumours she'd heard of what had been done to Adam before his death came unbidden to her mind and so did her memory of the agonised whispers which still haunted her in the dark. Would she be able to put up with the level of pain both men had suffered without breaking? She doubted it; it was just a question of how long she'd last before giving in. That was one of the reasons she'd worked mostly on The Grid; being a full-time field officer demanded a power of resilience her sensitive nature would probably never have.   
  
“Whatever it is you've got planned for me, just do it. But you won't get anything from me because there's nothing to tell,” she replied, hiding how scared she was behind a mask of defiance.  
  
“You've got nothing to fear. As I said before, I had you brought here only to talk. I've no intention of inflicting any bodily harm on you,” said he in his chocolatey voice.  
  
“Please, don't insult my intelligence,” she told him in a scathing tone.  
  
“There are more subtle ways to get the answers I'm looking for than resorting to torture.”  
  
“Drugs? I really don't see the difference; they're just another form of violation in disguise.”  
  
“Believe me, there's a difference. Pray to God you'll never get to experience it.”  
  
There was a fair chance he was playing with her and yet, she could feel relief wash over her. She'd perceived something in his voice, something indefinable which told her he wouldn't hurt her. Maybe she was clutching at straws because she was scared witless.  
  
“Why don't I tell you a story? You don't have to do anything but listen and assent if I've got the details right,” he suggested after a slight pause.  
  
Her captor's faint accent did nothing but add an appealling extra quality to his beautifully rich voice. Annabelle couldn't help but remember all those training lectures about kidnapping victims and the Stockholm Syndrome. Could it be she was endowing her captor with attributes that weren't actually there?   
  
“Six months ago your people carried out an internal hush-hush operation which ended up with a senior field officer behind bars for treason. Her name was Connie James. The intel that was used to identify her as a mole was provided by a man your agency traded for an FSB asset. Sir Harry Pearce, the Head of Section D, set up a meeting to debrief the source after the pick-up turned into a bloodshed with several officers out of commission, including Arkady Kachimov- the new FSB head of operations in London. Somebody sold your source out, someone within MI5, and Harry Pearce's the only secret service officer to have survived the armed confrontation virtually unscathed.”  
  
A long silence stretched out between them as she assimilated everything her captor had said. She didn't need this man to spell it out more clearly; he believed Harry Pearce was somehow guilty of what had happened to the man in the dark. She had suspected there were things her superior hadn't shared with either Adam or her, but the idea of Harry as a double agent responsible for their asset's torture and subsequent death was too painful to consider.  
  
“Do you remember that operation?” he asked quietly.  
  
“I'm a linguist. Languages are my area of expertise. I don't know anything about secret operations.”  
  
“You, Sir Harry Pearce, Adam Carter and Dr Delaney were airborne to an eighteenth-century castle half an hour away from London, where your agonising asset was debriefed, and you were the officer in charge of the interview. You personally typed everything he had to say into your laptop. Do you now remember that night, Miss Reed?”   
  
How could she ever forget? She was still haunted by the memory of being enveloped by darkness, with only the glow of the screen to register every word whispered by the dying man whose death she'd grieved deeply, despite their brief acquaintance.  
  
“Annabelle, do you remember that man? Can you tell me his name?”  
  
The question was unexpected and made the purpose of her kidnapping even more confusing. The Russians knew the identity of the man; they'd handed him over after torturing and beating him up within an inch of his life. Why would he ask her to give him a name he already had?  
  
“I told you I don't know what you're talking about.”  
  
“All I want is a name.”  
  
“I can't give you what I don't have,” she insisted.  
  
A blanket of silence fell over the room, disturbed only by a weary sigh and the rustle of clothing as he shifted his body in the seat across from her.   
  
“Two agents are dead; six,counting the ones that were shot at the rendezvous point. Half the team that was at the castle with you and Pearce is deceased,” he went on to explain, leaning forward and teasing her senses with the subtle but utterly masculine aroma of his aftershave. “Adam Carter, Dr Delaney... Are you ready to be the next?”  
  
The question sent a chill down her spine, making her swallow nervously. She wasn't Ros Myers; her colleague would have never let him read the fear written on her face.  
  
“You questioned both of them and you still have no answer?”   
  
“They didn't have it. That leaves you... and...”  
  
“Well, as I've told you countless times, I don't have the information you want.”  
  
“... Sir Harry Pearce,” he finished. “Maybe he's the only one who knows the name,” he added, giving voice to the thought that had been circling her mind. She was the one who'd been closest to their asset and yet she'd never known his name; she hadn't even asked it. For a fleeting moment she'd felt tempted to because if there was one thing she hated about their job was that so many gave their lives, left grieving families behind and ended up in an obscure dossier or as a carved name on a cold concealed wall; unsung heroes who only lived in the memory of a select few until their time came too. And yet, she was now glad Harry hadn't shared the man's name with her since she'd hate to be the one responsible for desecrating his memory when her captor broke her; for break her he would.  
  
“You keep mentioning this Sir something or other, but I don't know what it is you're talking about.”  
  
“Annabelle...” he began in a silky voice that she was sure would manage to charm even the coldest-blooded member of her gender.  
  
“Stop using my first name! Nobody's given you the right!” she hissed. No one outside The Grid called her by her Christian name, no one ever had... until that night in the dark when she'd broken her golden rule. And hearing it on her captor's lips hurt her in some unfathomable way; it reminded her of long-forgotten dreams of a normal life she knew she'd never have. All she could hope for now was a few stolen moments when she could pretend she was the kind that didn't care for forever.   
  
“Miss Reed, someone knows his name. I just want to know who.”  
  
“Why?!” she finally exploded, telling herself it was useless to keep denying any involvement when he clearly knew more about the people who'd taken part in the operation than she ever had. Maybe she could get some answers at last. “Why do you want to know his name? He's dead.”  
  
“Is that what Harry Pearce told you?” he asked in an even tone which betrayed nothing. “And you believed him?”  
  
“What are you hinting at? Of course I believed him. I was there, as you very well know. There was no need for lies. The man was dying in front of my eyes... “   
  
“Who's to say he didn't live longer? Were you there when he passed away?”  
  
“There's no way..,” she swallowed painfully. “He'd been tortured and brutally beaten...”  
  
“I know...” he said quietly.  
  
“Harry told me the man died that night,” she repeated in as controlled a voice as she could muster. She'd had her own doubts about how much of the truth her superior had told her, but she wasn't going to share her lingering uncertainties with this man, no matter how pleasantly seductive his voice was. Everyone close to their dead informant and the rest of her own team would be at risk.  
  
“You're an intelligent woman, Ann... _Miss Reed_. Lying is part and parcel of who Sir Harry Pearce is. It goes with the territory. “  
  
Of course she knew that. She wasn't that naïve. Knowing how to lie was a necessary asset in their world and was one she'd struggled to master after joining MI5 following a collaboration with Section D four years ago. Although she'd had a lot of scruples when the offer to join was presented to her, her mother's mounting hospital bills and expensive treatments tipped the scales. MI5 offered her a better pay and health insurance than her job as a university lecturer so, eventually, she decided it would be foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth and took up the offer.  
  
“Why is it so important for you to find out who knew his name?” she asked the man she suspected had ordered or taken part in their asset's demise.  
  
“Have you ever stopped to think how and where your source got the information he provided you with?”  
  
“I don't know.”  
  
“I think you do. You just don't want to see the truth...” he suggested quietly.  
  
“And what's the truth?! Enlighten me,” she told him bitterly, struggling to sit up and hating herself for her weakness, for discussing details of a secret op with the enemy, for letting his calm and beautiful voice seduce her.  
  
“You're exhausted. Let's leave it till tomorrow,” he replied softly as if he really cared about her well-being. “Come,” he added, getting up and grabbing her elbow to help her straighten up.  
  
“Don't touch me!” she shook him off. “I can do it,” she gritted, taking a few steps until a bout of dizziness seized her and she collapsed.  
  
“Tom!” he shouted, struggling with her dead weight.  
  
“What happened?” asked the 6ft-3in man who barged into the room to find his old friend on the floor holding the faint prisoner in his arms.  
  
“потерял сознание,” he replied slightly breathless.  
  
“English, please,” Tom cocked an eyebrow and knelt down to relieve him of her weight.  
  
“Sorry... She passed out.”  
  
“I can see that. It must be the stress and the lack of food. She didn't touch the tray I brought her.”  
  
“Her skin's clammy. She needs to ingest something sugary to boost the glucose in her blood.”  
  
“I've restocked the fridge. Why don't you fetch something while I take her upstairs?” suggested Tom at the foot of the stairs.  
  
“Я ненавижу все это, ” mumbled the other man, looking at the pale face of the beautiful young woman, whose head lolled against his best friend's shoulder.   
  
“I'm seriously considering taking a crash course in Russian. Does that mean you agree?” frown Tom.  
  
“Be off with you. I'll be up in a moment.”  
  


* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
_Я ненавижу все это._ 'I hate all this' she'd heard someone mumble in Russian from a long way off before letting go into the darkness.  
  
“Miss Reed... Annabelle.”  
  
A whispering voice called her name and she blinked slowly, fighting off the lingering neuralgia in her jaw and the pounding in her head.  
  
“Annabelle.”  
  
The voice was real and close. It wasn't a dream. She was no longer wearing a blindfold but darkness surrounded her; for a minute there she was reminded of that black room six months ago.   
  
“Do you remember who the current Prime Minister is?”  
  
“Brown. Gordon Brown,” she whispered.  
  
“And do you know what day it is?”  
  
“I don't know how long I've been here. One day? Must be Friday.”  
  
“What's your mobile phone number?”  
  
“What? You want a date? I thought we'd established you aren't one to follow the rules. You could have invited me a cup of coffee to have a civilised chat, instead of having your goon knock me out and drag me to your cave.”  
  
A rich and pleasant laugh came out of the darkness, taking her by surprise.   
  
“I'm glad to see I was right; you're a beautiful lady but you also have claws. Sir Harry's always had a keen eye when it comes to recruiting his people.”  
  
“Who are you?” she demanded, adjusting her eyes in an attempt to make out his shadow in the darkness which enveloped them.  
  
“You hit your head when you fainted. I'm just trying to find out if you have a concussion.”  
  
“I'm pretty articulate, wouldn't you say? And you haven't answered my question.”  
  
“Who was your informant?”  
  
“For the umpteenth time... I don't know. And he's dead. He's been dead six months. You made him suffer enough. Why don't you let him rest in peace at last? ”  
  
No answer came from across the room and yet she could feel his presence and smell his subtle aftershave as beguiling as his softly-spoken voice.  
  
Suddenly lethargic, and strangely relaxed, despite being under her captor's watch, she slowly drifted back to the safe realm of sleep.  
  
“You should know better than to fall for a pretty face. This is looking more and more like an obsession to me, mate,” said Tom gravely when his best friend joined him in the living room.  
  
“Half of the team's dead, murdered. And those casualties won't be the last. You know this isn't just about me; I've got others to think of.”  
  
“I could hasten the process if you allowed me to do what I suggested in the first place.”  
  
“No! No drugs.”  
  
“Why not? Is it because you're afraid of the answers you might get? Maybe you don't want to find out the truth after all. I wouldn't blame you if... “  
  
“Are you looking for a fight?” asked the coldly controlled voice.  
  
“No, I just want to make sure you're keeping your eyes on the ball... ”  
  
“The money in her account might be evidence, but it's not conclusive proof of her involvement.”  
  
“I understand you need a reprieve- God knows you've earned it- but don't let your feelings for this girl, whatever they're are, blind you.”  
  
“You didn't hesitate to put a bullet in Harry when he thought you a traitor. Do you believe I'd have qualms to do the same if I discovered he's somehow involved in all this?”  
  
“We aren't talking about Sir Harry Pearce here.”  
  
“No, we are talking about what I'm capable of. That should answer your question.”  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there are a couple of issues that might be disconcerting for those of you who live in the UK- the mounting hospital bills and her reasons for joining MI5 (mainly her salary). I'll make sure to explain them in coming chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.
> 
> A/N: this fic is my own version of Series 7. I will probably update it once a month, considering my busy work schedule, and try to pen a one-shot in between to continue my Guy & Marian Acrostic Series.

  
Annabelle woke up with a dull headache, no doubt the result of her hitting her head when she'd fainted the previous night.  
  
As soon as the room stopped spinning she made her way to the bathroom to attend to the urgent needs of nature. Then she struggled to strip down in order to have a shower in the semi-darkness; although there was a lamp on the bedside table, there was no switch in the room and it was up to the people who held her hostage to leave the lights on or off.  
  
She found the quick shower invigorating; she would have killed for an immersion bath with her favourite salts and scented candles, but beggars aren't choosers and she couldn't risk having her captors walk on her naked.  
  
Despite their overall civilised treatment of her, she hadn't expected to find her suitcase when she returned to her room nor did she believe she would be afforded the luxury of spending a few hours sans blindfold and of having even hot running water and perfumed soap to freshen up. Drying herself up quickly she donned a pair of blue jeans, a white t-shirt, a  red cardigan and sandals.  
  
Rummaging through her suitcase to choose a clean change of clothes had been a strangely disturbing experience. There was no doubt in her mind they had searched through her things and yet it wasn't the idea of their handling her intimate apparel that unsettled her but, rather, the thought of the man with the chocolatey voice and the subtle aftershave going through her belongings... touching her lingerie. God, what was wrong with her?! She should be sickened not blushing furiously at the images her mind seemed to be determined to conjure up.  
  
Stockholm Syndrome, yes, that's what it was. She would have had the same reaction no matter what her captor had sounded like.  
  
She didn't have to wait long for the lights to go off again and the key to turn in the lock. The room was cast into darkness and yet she recognised the spicy cologne as that of the man who'd seized her outside her flat. Tom. That was his name or, at least, that was what she'd heard the other one call him before she passed out in his arms the night before.  
  
“Is this really necessary?” she asked her kidnapper when he approached her with the blindfold ready in his hand.  
  
Ros would have in all certainty made an attempt to neutralise him and run for her life if she'd been in Annabelle's place- after all, the young woman's hands had been untied when he entered the room.  Maybe she was a coward, but she found comfort in the thought that her decision had been a sensible one; she didn't know how many there were and, considering the man's height and build, she was clearly at a disadvantage. No, she'd much rather survive the ordeal than leave the place in a bag.    
  
                                                                                             * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
Annabelle hadn't turned up to work in the last three days and everyone on The Grid was growing restless. Ben and Jo's visit to her flat had yielded no positive results and the bed & breakfast they discovered she'd recently moved into was a dead end. Nobody said it in so many words, but the fear another officer would turn up dead at their doorstep was hanging on their heads like the sword of Damocles.  
  
With Annabelle missing in action, the section was short of a very skilful linguist, and the urgent need for a replacement- hopefully a temporary one- couldn't be ignored. Bringing new people in was a particularly delicate matter when the allegiances within were being questioned; Annabelle's disappearance left no doubt there was someone in their midst who knew Tiresias was under threat, and that someone was beheading the pawns on the board to get to the major prize.  
  
Sir Harry needed someone he could trust implicitly and that someone had unexpectedly resurfaced after an absence of two years. Ruth Evershed, now a widow, was back on British soil and some of the old ghosts he hadn't been able to put to rest started visiting the head of Section D.  
  
“Harry, about Annabelle's replacement...” said his new chief of section on seeing him emerge from his private office.  
  
“I'm going to see to it today. Any news?”  
  
“We've kept trying her mobile with no luck. The battery must have been removed. We can't use the GPS signal.”  
  
“OK. Keep me posted. You can reach me on my mobile. Now, I'm off. I have an appointment with my barber before meeting the Home Secretary,” Harry smiled wryly, walking towards the pods.  
  
Although the barber and the Rt Hon Nicholas Blake were part of the head of section's agenda for the day, there was an off-the-record visit he'd meant to make on his way back from Ruth's. It was high time he faced two of his most personal failures face-on.  
                                                                                           * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
She'd been led into the room blindfolded, trying to follow Tom's guidance without stumbling over a carpet or bumping into the furniture, hating the sense of helplessness of the whole situation.  
  
Sitting in a comfortable upholstered armchair she heard voices whispering across the room, too low for her to be able to make out what they were saying but fast-paced enough to surmise something had happened, something which had shaken the unflappable man of the chocolatey voice, judging by the anger in his tone and his reverting to Russian. No, she couldn't understand what they were discussing but the Slavic expletives she overheard were unmistakable.  
  
No sooner had the voices stopped than she felt knuckles softly graze her cheek. Goose pimples covered her skin and, for the first time since she entered the warm room, she appreciated wearing the cardigan to conceal her betraying body.  
  
“Don't,” she said aloud, flinching away when the long-fingered hand she recognised as his made to tuck a few stray hairs behind her ear.  
  
“I'm sorry about the blindfold,” he replied with polite civility, “but it's for the best.”  
  
“Who are you?” she asked unable to hide how puzzled she was at his treatment of her. Even now, when she expected him to resort to some sort of violence after overhearing his angry exchange with Tom, he was disconcertingly gallant.  
  
“The less you know the better, Miss Reed.”  
  
“I'm not stupid. I don't know what game you're playing or how naïve you think I am..”  
  
“This is not a game. There's too much at risk to be so cavalier. And no, you're hardly stupid...”  
  
“If this isn't a game, stop pretending you're someone other than you are.”  
  
“And what makes you think this isn't me? A name doesn't make us who we are, Annabelle.”  
  
“You had your goon knock me out, chloroform me and drag me here to be held against my will. I think that's more than revealing, don't you?”  
  
“I'm sorry for the punch. It wasn't part of my instructions. I've been told you haven't taken any of the painkillers with your meals.”  
  
“As if I would be so foolish. At least, if you're going to drug me, I'll have the consolation of knowing I put up a fight.”  
  
“I promise you there'll be no drugs. Just tell me what I want to know.”  
  
“We can go on like this for days and I still won't tell you a thing, because there's nothing to tell. I don't know anything about the asset, except that he's dead. He's been dead for six months, in a grave somewhere away from your filthy FSB. You can do nothing else to him now. I bet it must be killing you, knowing he won and you lost, and there's not a thing you can do about it,” she seethed, wondering how much more of his eerily calm control she could tolerate.  
  
She felt tears welling up in her eyes and thanked the presence of the blindfold because it allowed her a temporary reprieve to get hold of her emotions. He would never see her cry. No, the last man she cried for deserved them, and she wasn't about to desecrate his sacrifice by breaking down now.  
                                                                                  * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
“Gone? What do you mean gone?” exploded the Head of Section D after gaining admittance to the secluded private clinic he hadn't set foot in for the last four months.  
  
“The patient left us a month ago, sir. He...” the doctor in charge of the case began to explain.  
  
“Why wasn't I informed?” glared the veteran secret service agent.  
  
“I thought you knew. Your signature was in the letter.”  
  
“What letter?”  
  
“The one in which you informed us that his brother had been contacted and that as his next-of-kin he'd now be the one signing all the paperwork.This isn't a prison, Mr Pearce. The patient had been responding very well to our treatment and, although he still had a couple more weeks of physiotherapy to be ready for release, he was eager to leave. His brother told me the family had hired the services of a professional to see the programme was completed at home. My first priority's always been the welfare of my patient and having the support of family and friends, particularly in a case such as  his which was touch-and-go for over a month, is vital to speed up a difficult recovery.”  
  
 _The support of family and friends_. The man certainly knew how to rub salt into an open wound.  
  
“Well, I don't know who wrote that letter but it certainly wasn't me. You said two people came to pick him up. Could you describe them? Were they foreigners?”  
  
“They were a very attractive couple- a 6'3'' man and a blond woman. She didn't speak so I cannot tell for certain, but he was definitely British.”  
  
“Did you notice anything worth-mentioning as regards their interaction with your patient?” frowned Sir Harry.  
  
“All I can say is that the three of them left the building walking and that there was no sign of coercion. Both men hugged on meeting and cracked some jokes; there was no doubt in my mind they were close.”  
  
“You have CCTV cameras in the reception area and the corridors....”  
                                                                                    * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
“Did Pearce tell you how the asset had approached MI5?”  
  
“He didn't tell me anything.”  
  
“Anything other than it was done through Kachimov, the late head of the FSB in London, that is,” he patiently clarified.  
  
“If you say so. Whatever information you're fishing for, I don't know. You appear to have more answers than I actually do. I really don't understand why you're wasting time questioning me.”  
  
Maybe I should have kept that last thought to myself, mused Annabelle. There was a fair chance her kidnappers would decide she was a wasted effort in the end, and either dispose of her in much the same way they had the late doctor and Adam or move to less civilised methods of interrogation than having her listen to this beautiful voice in the dark.  
  
“Haven't you ever wondered where and how your informant got all the intel he passed on to you? You had to; it was a wealth of information.”  
  
It wasn't the first time he'd asked her that question and it was one which invited speculation since Annabelle was convinced he knew exactly where the information had been gained. What's more, a gut feeling told her he knew a lot more than what she had assumed on debriefing the dying man. Although it'd been enough to hear the asset's raspy voice and perceive the battered and abused body in the dark to imagine the indignities he'd suffered at the hands of the FSB, only God knew when his Calvary had actually begun.  
  
“In this business we're paid to follow orders without asking questions. And that's what I did. It was a case just like any other. I simply typed what he said before he died, handed in my report and that was it. Death is part and parcel of my world; I can't afford to think about all the people who die around me. At the end of the day, what matters is to have done my job well and live to see another day.”  
  
“I don't believe for a minute you're either as cold-blooded or cynical as you want to appear, Ms Reed,” he denied,  leaning forward and brushing her hand lightly when he touched the delicate charm bracelet she was wearing.  
  
Annabelle's stomach lurched for a reason that she knew wasn't fear. His touch was just as pleasant as his strangely caressing voice; a fact she found tremendously unfair considering no one had ever stirred her this way before. Well, nobody except the dying man she couldn't seem to forget; a fact which she found immensely ironical.  
  
“Иисус Навин;. St Joshua,” he added, holding the charm symbolising the Patron Saint of spies. “Are you a religious person, Annabelle?”  
  
“Are you?”  
  
“You sound surprised. You don't think that someone like me can actually have a soul to save.”  
  
“Nobody's beyond redemption.”  
  
“Even if that person were FSB?... You've gone quiet all of a sudden. Things aren't as black and white, are they? You want to hold onto your faith and charity but sometimes belief can falter even amongst the most fervent believers. I know what it's like; I've been there... Are you as good as you  want the world to think, Miss Reed?”  
  
“That's not for me to say. He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone... . Isn't that what the Good Book says?”  
  
“There's a lot of money to be made in the world of Intelligence, and you're in a very sensitive position. Haven't you ever felt tempted to profit from it?”  
  
“I'd never sell out my friends,” she replied with clear accusation in her voice.  
  
“But, you see, we aren't talking about friends here. You'd never met this asset until that night and you spent... what? Three? Four hours with him?”  
  
“I find what you're suggesting truly offensive,” she said through gritted teeth.  
  
“You can't blame me for being curious. You gave up a job at university which paid double the salary of a junior officer at MI5... “  
  
Annabelle understood only too well what he was hinting at. Four years ago, when her father- Colonel Charles Reed- had passed away, leaving his only daughter in charge of the welfare of a terminally ill mother, the unexpected offer made by his late comrade-at-arms, Sir Harry Pearce, had sounded too good to be true. And yet, the man had managed to convince her to join in with air-tight arguments; Her Majesty's Service needed her expertise and was willing to pay her extra for the sacrifice of giving up such a coveted tenure.  
  
The young woman had had great qualms about the recruiting; after all, being a spy -even a desk one- was hardly the sedate and safe teaching job she had then. However, her love for her mother and the knowledge that the NHS would never cover the expensive cost of the experimental treatment which might provide her with the cure traditional science had failed to, prompted Annabelle to accept MI5's God-sent proposal.  
  
It had taken her a couple of years to find out the bonus she got every month came straight from Harry Pearce; the offer had allowed the veteran spy to pay off an old debt of gratitude to the late colonel for having saved his life on a mission several years before.  
  
“Your offshore bank account balance is quite impressive. Tell me, Annabelle,” he suggested quietly, catching her chin and holding it with his warm, mesmerizing fingers. “Was it you who betrayed the man in the castle?” he asked her in a tone coloured by an indefinable emotion that wasn't anger.  
  
“I've never had an offshore bank account in my life, and I couldn't have done what you're implying. I'd have never betrayed him!” she exploded, lifting her chin from his fingers and pulling away.  
  
“Well, someone did; someone on your team. And whoever did it placed his former wife and her new young family in danger.”  
  
Annabelle gulped.  
  
“I had nothing to do with that...”  
  
                                                                              * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*  
  
Tom Quinn and Christine Dale.  
  
Seeing on the recording his former Chief of Section and the woman for whom Tom had resigned from the Service shouldn't have taken Harry by surprise, especially knowing how close Lucas  and Tom had been ever since their university years. However, finding out Quinn had been the one to step in to help Lucas in his greatest moment of need when it should have been him there, made Harry Pearce, the man responsible for Lucas' predicament, ashamed. Yes, Sir Harry Pearce, loathed to admit it, but he hadn't been able to face the young officer who'd sacrificed everything for Queen and country and who'd gone through hell to prove himself in his mentor's eyes once again.  
  
There was no doubt in the head of Section's mind that Quinn's decision not to either erase or seize the CCTV tapes had been a clear attempt to send his former boss a message- that he and Christine had been there for Lucas when everyone had forsaken him.  
                                                                                * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
 _“Well, someone did; someone on your team. And whoever did it placed his former wife and her new young family in danger.”_  
  
The words played over and over again in her mind as she lay stretched out on her bed.  
  
Could it be she'd been wrong all along? Could it be these men weren't FSB but something else entirely? What the beguiling voice had asserted didn't sound as something the FSB would have said. After all, if they were Russian spies, wouldn't they have been the ones to go after the asset's family in their effort to locate him and silence him forever?  
  
But if her kidnappers' employer wasn't the former KGB, then who were they working for? And who was the traitor in Section D's midst?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole. Alternate Series 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

When Tom left her alone in her bedroom and turned the key in the lock, Annabelle removed her blindfold and walked to the mullioned window. There was no grill over the outside and nothing in the room that she could use to pick the padlock which kept the window sealed. The only possibility of escape was to break the double-glazed pane, slip through the chipped glass and jump two storeys because there was no trellis or anything she could hold onto on her way down. The thought was discarded almost as soon as it had sprung up; the noise would have them barging into the room in no time and, even if she were lucky enough to get out of the room, the chance of her not breaking her neck or ending up in a wheelchair was too slim to risk it.  
  
Several hours later, after devouring what she had to confess was the most mouth-watering lunch  she'd ever tasted, she was stirred from her slumber by the sound of the key unlocking the door. Tom was back to retrieve the tray and leave a gift-wrapped box on the dressing-table before slipping out without uttering a word; no amount of cajoling on her part ever since her abduction had managed to get a word from him.     
  
No sooner had the lights been turned on than she got up and crossed the room to grab the box and the small light-blue envelope she found on top of it. Curious, she slipped out the card and read the note scribbled in a masculine and beautiful handwriting- it shouldn't have come as a surprise considering who'd written it. Annabelle wondered if the wrapping would be as beguiling as everything about him she'd experienced so far; somehow, she suspected it would. A pity she'd never get to see what he actually looked like.  
  
An invitation to dine accompanied by a classic black dress, thigh-high tights and a pair of matching high heels to wear for the occasion. This man would never cease to surprise her. Was this an attempt to seduce her? The gown wasn't the kind one would get off-the-peg; the fabric felt heavy, expensive and sensual to the touch. She'd never owned anything like it; her wardrobe featured mostly utilitarian clothes or sober trouser suits, an armour meant to disguise the softness both Harry and Lucas had managed to recognise in her.  
  
She caressed the material, fighting the urge to try it on. She'd have to take off her cotton underwear and slip on the silk and lace one-piece designed to follow the cut of the dress or else her bra would show under the décolletage. [i]He's thought of everything[/i], she blushed. The temptation to give in just to see what he'd seen, if only in the privacy of her room, eventually won.  
  
He'd got all her measures right. The meaning of such a discovery wasn't lost on her; he'd either checked out the labels on her clothes when going through her things or taken visual measurements  while he interrogated her. Annabelle didn't know if she should feel insulted but, seeing the sensual and sophisticated woman reflected in the mirror, she acknowledged it was flattering to have a man think of her that way, especially when she had never seen herself in such a light.  
  
                                                                                           * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
Tom knocked and at the response, guided the young woman to her place at the table before untying her hands.  
  
She didn't need to have her blindfold removed to know she'd never been in this room before, nor did she need the use of her eyes to realise [i]he[/i] was already there; she would have recognised that subtle yet utterly masculine fragrance anywhere.  
  
“Good evening, Miss Reed.Thank you for joining me,” said the chocolatey voice close to her ear, helping her pull up her chair. “It seems apologies are in order; the dress didn't fit... Or is there another reason for your decision not to wear it tonight?”  
  
“The gown was beautiful. It just wasn't my style,” she replied, choosing to tell him the truth but keeping the fact it had actually fitted not to give him the satisfaction of knowing she'd even tried it on.  
  
“You've been around the wrong men if that's what you've been taught to believe. Wine?”  
  
“I'd rather have a glass of water, please,” she said, wondering when she'd ever blushed so much around a man.  
  
“I promise it hasn't been doctored nor am I trying to make you drunk to have my way with you,” he reassured her with a smile in his voice.  
  
“ _One_ glass then. I wouldn't like my host to think of me as ungrateful,” she told him. She wasn't planning on getting drunk but she needed the Dutch courage to live through dinner with her integrity intact.  
  
A long-stemmed glass of cold white wine was placed in her hand and, once again, she felt butterflies in her stomach at the simple touch of those long, lean fingers, shaped like a musician's.  
  
She took a rather large sip and welcomed the fact she now had something to hold onto that could help disguise the slight shaking of her hands.  
  
“Is your job everything you hoped for when you gave up a promising career as a scholar? Does it make you happy, Annabelle?”  
  
“I'm pleased when we manage to make a major dent in the plans of whoever happens to jeopardise the security of the realm. So, yes, I'm happy.”  
  
“Are you really satisfied with the outcome of the operation Sir Harry Pearce dragged you into six months ago, despite the fact that some very important links in the chain slipped through your fingers? Despite all the collateral damage? We haven't known each other for long, but I pride myself  on knowing how to read people.”  
  
“Do you? Then you should already know I can't give you what I don't have. And you shouldn't have gone to all this trouble to impress me; you already knew I'd come. I'm your prisoner, after all.”  
  
“I know the current circumstances would never allow for you to consider yourself as my guest... Believe me when I say it's never been my intention to hurt you in any way. You're here only to talk.”  
  
“You're making me feel guilty. What is so special about me that makes me deserving of a treatment different from the one Carter and Delaney got? Is it because I'm a woman? What do you expect to get from me tonight?”  
  
“I want us to pretend, if only for a short while, that we're just a normal couple- a man and a woman sharing a bottle of wine and having an intelligent conversation over dinner. No spy games. No secret agendas,” he suggested, his velvety voice trickling over her like honey.  
  
If she were honest with herself, she found the idea really alluring. There was no use pretending she wasn't aware of the attraction between them when it'd been there from the start. In fact, she had to keep reminding herself who he was and what he did because everything about him seemed contrary to the man she'd expected him to be. His manners, his tastes and his treatment of her were anything but coarse; he was what her late father would have called a genuine gentleman- the kind of partner he'd have wished for his only daughter.[i] God, you're falling into the most common place trap, Annabelle. You should know better than to become a willing victim of your captor. Stockholm Syndrome, remember? [/i]  
  
Even though she'd always been a sensible woman, she couldn't help but fall under the spell of his  beautiful northern accent with a barely disguised flavour of Slavic and, yes, his subtle and utterly masculine scent. And who could blame her for wanting to believe him when he told her he meant her no harm? It was so difficult not to believe he actually cared, seeing the way he provided for her every comfort. After all, hadn't he even spent a night of vigil at her bedside afraid she was concussed?  
  
Annabelle wondered how far she'd be willing to use the palpable attraction between them to her advantage; she should be disgusted to even consider it but she wasn't. Once again she appreciated the concealment provided by the blindfold she was made to wear whenever she was in his presence; what he stirred in her with his voice and the brush of his hands was dangerous enough without having to look at temptation in the eye.  
  
“What's wrong?” he asked on hearing the door open, putting an end to her musings.  
  
Was that annoyance in his voice? Not being able to tell what he was actually feeling, when reading his motivations was so important to her current predicament, frustrated her immensely.  
  
“Мне очень жаль, дорогая.  Боюсь, нам придется отложить наш обед. Something's turned up which demands my immediate attention,” he apologised calmly after receiving a softly whispered message that she hadn't been able to make out.”Maybe later...  Please, forgive me.”  
                                                                                  * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
After a tray had been delivered to her room and the elegant dinner savoured with a hearty appetite, Annabelle lay on her bed wondering what urgent business had interrupted the candlelight dinner the man with the silken voice had planned so carefully.  
   
Мне очень жаль, дорогая. He'd called her _darling_ again and she couldn't help but remember the clear tinge of regret in his voice when he'd been forced to leave her alone.  
  
Sleep didn't come easy that night; her mind being in a whirl and her emotions in a turmoil of confusion. Finally, exhausted, slumber found her only for Tom to shake her awake a few hours later.  
  
His rough treatment of her was disconcerting after the kid glove routine which had been the norm ever since her capture, and Annabelle felt a tight knot in her stomach as sudden fear seized her.  
  
Had it all been a game meant to lull her into a false sense of security? Had it all been a skilfully devised plan of her captor's to make her believe he was attracted to her and that such a protection would shelter her from harm?  
  
Something was definitely not right seeing she was dragged down the stairs blindfolded and wearing only her nightclothes. This just wasn't _his_ style.  
  
Tom opened a door and pushed her inside, pulling her down into a chair and tying her hands behind her back. She told herself there was nothing to be afraid of; her captor had promised he wouldn't hurt her...and yet, the palpable tense silence in the room told her something different. He was there; she could feel his powerful aura touch her with invisible fingers.  
  
When Tom stepped back, she knew it was only a matter of time before the man she'd felt inexorably pulled to since her kidnapping made his move. However, what actually occurred was unlike anything she'd expected.  
  
Long careful fingers threaded through her chestnut hair, untangling the tresses she hadn't been allowed to brush out. She found the gentle pull hypnotically relaxing, and the trepidation which had seized her eased a little. Maybe she'd read too much into Tom's actions, maybe he'd simply had a tough day and needed to take it out on someone. Maybe...  
  
“Are you a liar, Annabelle?” asked close to her ear the dark and mellifluous voice she knew so well. “Is there a betraying heart beating behind that soft façade?” he added, suddenly clenching his until then caressing fingers in her hair, piercing her cocoon of safety and bringing her back to earth.  
  
“What do you mean? I...” she began, making an effort to control the tremor in her voice.  
  
“Don't lie to me,” he interrupted her, his tone dangerously silky. “You said Adam Carter was with you on The Grid the night of the exchange, that he wasn't on the site where your asset was handed over to MI-5.”  
  
“Yes” she replied quietly, swallowing the lump in her throat, wondering where his questioning was heading. “Both of us were at Thames House. Harry Pearce sent him to get me...”  
  
“Had you seen Carter before he came for you?”    
  
“We spent the whole afternoon in the archives and then returned to our desks. He only stepped out twenty minutes to get us freshly brewed coffee and some snacks.”  
  
“Twenty minutes? Are you sure about the time frame? Immersed as I imagined you were in dossiers, couldn't your time perception have been altered?”  
  
“I don't understand... What is it you're hinting at?”  
  
“Are you sure he wasn't away longer? Enough to drive to the rendezvous point and back?”  
  
“I'm sure. I'll never forget what time it was when he came back without the snacks and with the order for both of us to be airborne to the Hall where our asset was dying... a very painful death, denied the relief of drugs beyond local anaesthetics.”  
  
“How do you explain this picture then?” he asked coldly after an eerily pregnant silence, pulling her blindfold back from behind and placing the heels of his hands on either side of her temples to make sure her eyes were focused on the black and white grainy photo projected on the wall. “That's you, Miss Reed, isn't it? You and Carter really cosy outside the warehouse where your asset was being beaten and tortured within an inch of his life.”  
  
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “We weren't there... I wasn't there. Are you suggesting... ” she croaked, “are you suggesting Carter and I... that I witnessed that savagery and...”    
  
“Are you saying this picture was doctored? That you and your partner aren't the traitors this evidence reveals  you to be. That you didn't know the identity of the prisoner,” he grated, tightening the hold on her hair.  
  
“You can't... you can't believe I would...”  
  
“I don't know what to believe. If there's one thing I've learnt in this business, it's that at the end of the day there's only one person you can trust- yourself.”  
  
“Does Tom know that's what you think?” she replied in defiance, determined not to reveal how frightened she was.  
  
“Do you deny it's you in that picture?”  
  
“I can't. I was there... but not that night. That location's been used as a rendezvous point by MI5 more than once. I don't know what your source's told you but that photo was taken last year.”  
  
The quality of the enlarged photo was poor, but she recognised herself and the other MI5 operative, only it wasn't Adam she was being embraced by. Although the height and build of both male officers were similar, the man in the shot was older. “That's not Carter.”  
  
“You'd better not be lying to me, Annabelle.”  
  
“I know it isn't him because he wasn't the one I had to pose as a girlfriend for. It was one of my rare undercover operations, one which required my skills as a linguist. ”  
  
“Is that so? What's the man's name?”  
  
“Whoever gave you this is just playing with you.”  
  
“Who is the man, Annabelle?” he insisted, and for a fleeting moment she imagined she could hear a trace of jealousy in the question. “And think carefully before giving me an answer,” he whispered against her hair.  
  
So far, she'd not been hurt and she supposed she ought to be grateful, but she was no fool; she could recognise leashed anger when she was around it.    
                                                                                                  * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
He'd promised...  The  jab  of  the needle had taken her completely unawares and, for the first time since her abduction, she experienced real panic.    
  
"I swear I didn't have anything to do with what they did to him. Please... don't do this,” she begged.  
  
“What in God's name are you doing?! She was going to give me his name. I'd given her my word,” she heard him shout from a distance as the drugs kicked in.  
  
“I don't want to be one more on the list of those who'd failed to watch your back. You should know better than to let a pretty face blind you. You know this is the only way you'll be 100% certain what she's saying is nothing but the truth,” replied Tom soberly.”Ask her again who the man in the photo is. Ask her about the offshore account in her name and if she's a member of Tiresias.”  
   
Annabelle's mouth felt as if it were full of cotton and no matter how hard she tried to put her jumbled thoughts into words, she was physically incapable of denying any of the accusations which were being hurled at her once again.  
  
Why didn't he do anything? Why did he allow Tom to treat her this way? He was the one who was supposed to be in charge. Why didn't he rescue her?  
  
“Please... help me,” she slurred.  
  
By the time Lucas finally answered her pleas and held her in his arms, she was no longer aware of the world around her.  
  
                                                                                          * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
When she came to she wasn't wearing a blindfold any more and yet darkness surrounded her.  
  
She could still hear a kaleidoscope of muffled voices ringing in her ears. Harry's and Adam's... Tom's... and, above them all, the agonised whispers which had remained with her since that fateful night she hadn't been able to put behind herself.  
  
Although she couldn't remember what the voices had asked or what she'd said, there was something she was sure of, she'd told them everything she knew just as Tom had predicted she would when he'd injected her that serum. She'd broken down, but she hadn't been alone, a pair of arms had caught her, arms which had made her feel safe in spite of it all.  
  
Her mouth was dry and her throat felt like sandpaper when she tried to swallow.  
  
“Easy,”  said the voice of her captor's softly. “Small sips or you'll make yourself sick,” he added, slipping his hand under her head gingerly to help her drink.  
  
“How long...” she asked in a raspy voice as he carefully laid her head against the pillow.  
  
“Too long, _Golubushka_. I thought you'd never wake up.”  
  
Annabelle told herself she should hate him and recoil in disgust from him after what he'd allowed Tom to put her through. However, the undeniable anger and concern in his voice, the gentleness of his touch mollified her. Even though she couldn't remember everything that she'd been asked and everything she'd said, she could still hear the censure in the shouts he'd addressed to Tom  as the syringe had pricked her neck and feel the ghost of his gentle arms around her when, drained, she'd broken down and sobbed.  
  
“Извините. Мне так жаль, “ he apologised quietly.  
  
“You do believe me, don't you?” she asked in a thin voice, turning her face on the pillow in the direction of his voice.”I wasn't there... I could have never.... done that to him,”she hiccuped.  
  
“Shhh... I know. I believe you. Now rest, _Golubushka_ ,” he soothed her, pressing a soft kiss on her forehead.”You're safe now. I swear I won't let anyone hurt you again and that includes me. “  
  
“Please,” she beseeched him, grabbing his shirt with trembling fingers as he started to move away from her body,”please, let me go. I promise I won't tell them anything.”  
  
“I wish I could, Annabelle. There's too much I've yet to understand. Believe me when I say it isn't safe for you to leave just now. Let me live up to the promise I've made to you. I won't see you harmed.”  
  
Not for the first time she resented being engulfed in this darkness, unable to make out the face of this man who'd managed to breach the protective walls around her.  
  
“Please,” she whispered again, feeling the tears finally rolling down her cheeks, her deep attraction for the dark stranger waging war in her chest against the urgent need to go back to the safety of home.  
  
“ _Golubushka_ ,“ he murmured wiping away the moisture from her face, a tender move which only ended up having the opposite effect when she was suddenly seized by racking sobs.  
  
Whispered words of comfort and the safe refuge of his arms eventually chased the storm away.  
  
“Go to sleep now, Annabelle,” he told her softly.  
  
“I don't think I can... Would you... would you stay with me? Just...” she stammered.  
  
“Of course. I'll stay until you fall asleep.”  
  
“Do you think you could... ? Would you talk to me?”  
  
“What do you want me to talk about?”  
  
“It doesn't matter what... I just find your voice... soothing.”  
  
“OK,” he replied with a smile. “I don't know any bed time stories. Do you like poetry?”  
  
“Mm,” she assented.  
  
“Then, close your eyes,” he commanded gently before starting with a poem his father, the minister, used to recite to him when he was a child.  
  
 _Sweet dreams, form a shade_  
 _O'er my lovely infant's head!_  
 _Sweet dreams of pleasant streams_  
 _By happy, silent, moony beams!_  
  
 _Sweet Sleep, with soft down_  
 _Weave thy brows an infant crown!_  
 _Sweet Sleep, angel mild,_  
 _Hover o'er my happy child!_  
  
 _Sweet smiles, in the night_  
 _Hover over my delight!_  
 _Sweet smiles, mother's smiles,_  
 _All the livelong night beguiles._  
  
 _Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,_  
 _Chase not slumber from thy eyes!_  
 _Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,_  
 _All the dovelike moans beguiles._  
  
 _Sleep, sleep, happy child!_  
 _All creation slept and smiled._  
 _Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,_  
 _While o'er thee thy mother weep._  
  
 _Sweet babe, in thy face_  
 _Holy image I can trace;_  
 _Sweet babe, once like thee_  
 _Thy Maker lay, and wept for me:_  
  
 _Wept for me, for thee, for all,_  
 _When He was an infant small._  
 _Thou His image ever see,_  
 _Heavenly face that smiles on thee!_  
  
 _Smiles on thee, on me, on all,_  
 _Who became an infant small;_  
 _Infant smiles are His own smiles;_  
 _Heaven and earth to peace beguiles._  
  
The sun was rising on the horizon when he untangled Annabelle's fingers from his and slipped out of the room.  
  
No matter how much he wished he could have stayed and watched her beautiful tear-stained face in repose, light was his enemy.  
  
                                                                                          * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
When Tom entered the study a couple of hours later, Lucas was sitting in an armchair, studying the grainy black and white photo which had precipitated the events of the previous morning as if it held the secrets of the universe.  
  
“Have you had breakfast yet?” asked Tom, setting down his on the coffee table between them.  
  
The answer was lying on the mahogany desk in front of the window; an empty mug and a plate with only breadcrumbs.  
  
“How is she?” he added when no response was heard.  
  
“I don't like you very much this morning, Quinn,” gritted Lucas, looking at his friend from under his long eyelashes.  
  
“You know you'd have done the same in my shoes, Lucas. Sometimes it's necessary for an impartial party to step in. You'd been dancing around each other for far too long, entangled in whatever this... this thing... between you is called.”  
  
“Christ, Tom! You injected her a dose which could have knocked out an elephant.”  
  
“It got you the answers you wanted, didn't it? She's clean. Lucas, you can hate me all you want for what I did yesterday, but I only had your interests and your ex-wife's at heart. For all we knew, Annabelle might have been a KGB sleeper since her childhood, planted in MI5 after my resignation to be activated at their convenience.”  
  
“Tell Christine I want her to arrange a meeting with her contact.”  
  
“You're not thinking of going on your own.”  
  
“I'll use the confessional in that church we used to attend on Sundays when we were at university. I don't need to see his face to get what I want from him.”  
  
“Who's the man in the picture, Lucas? ”  
  
“A ghost from the past. He knows I was the source and must be aware I'm alive. This picture proves it. He's made his move. Now it's time I made mine.”  
  
“OK. We'll play it your way, but I'll go too.That's non-negotiable,” replied Tom, taking a sip of his frothy coffee.  
  
“Talk to your wife. I'm going to have a walk in the gardens.”  
  
“Lucas?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“At least now you know she's as obsessed as you are,” smiled Tom smugly in obvious reference to Annabelle.  
  
“She's obsessed with a dead man.”  
                                                                                  * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

  
  
“I've been expecting your call,” replied the voice after the third ring.  
  
“Come to the usual rendezvous point at five. Alone. We need to talk.”  
  
“L...”  
  
“Watch your back,” snapped Lucas, disconnecting the call.  
  
  
 **A/N:** _Golubushka_ is a term of endearment equivalent to “my darling” and it means “little dove.”  
  
The poem which Lucas recited to Annabelle is William Blake's _'A Cradle Song' (from “Songs of Innocence”)_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole. This fic is my own version of Series 7.
> 
> Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

When Annabelle woke up the following day, the sun was high up in the sky and her head was throbbing with a dull ache.  
  
Closing her eyes, she remembered the events of the previous night, the way his gentle and soothing touch had affected her and what it'd felt like to be held in his arms. She should stop daydreaming about her captor, but deep down she was aware it was a lot easier said than done.  
  
Last night had been a real turning point, an experience which had left her vulnerable and emotionally stripped. She wished she could wash away the imprint of his hands and lips on her skin  because, as welcome and comforting as they'd been, they only reminded her of what would never be hers.  
  
Stepping out of the shower, she studied her face in the mirror and saw the strain of the past few days reflected in the depth of her eyes. Carefully applied make-up helped her disguise the evidence of last night's tears and gave her back the appearance of normalcy she craved. She was once again calm and collected, outwardly unaffected by his interference in her life.  
  
Annabelle couldn't help but go over the events of the previous day. Someone had provided her kidnappers with that photo to convince them she was the one who'd betrayed the dying man. Clearly, whoever had furnished her captor with this allegedly incontestable proof of her guilt wanted to detract attention from his own involvement.  
  
Soon after she'd finished with her ablutions a knock was heard.     
  
“Come in,” she called, surprised when the door opened and a tall, slim and very attractive man in his early thirties stepped in carrying a tray.  
  
Tom. She recognised his gait and perfume.  
  
“He'd like to see you once you've finished your lunch,” he told her, his voice as deep and musical as that of his partner. “I hope you're feeling better this morning.”  
  
“Is that an apology?” she cocked a thin and shapely eyebrow.  
  
“If there's anyone to answer for what happened yesterday, that would be me. He didn't want you harmed in any way, and I went against his wishes. It was my call, my decision, and I was wrong. I'm sorry.”  
  
“Had our roles been reversed and several lives been at stake, I'd probably have done the same. As to your apology, the fact that I'm not wearing a blindfold and you're showing your face for the first time is enough proof of your contrition and your actual trust in me. So let's bygones be bygones, shall we?”  
  
“Will you come then? To meet him I mean.”  
  
“Yes,” she agreed after a pause.  
                                                                                                    * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*  
  
An hour later Annabelle was escorted to the ground floor, full of anticipation at the prospect of finally seeing face-to-face the mysterious man who had managed to bewitch her like some powerful sorcerer. However, it wasn't meant to be for, as soon as she crossed the threshold with Tom, she found herself in a dimmed-lit room once again.  
  
It took her eyes a few moments to adjust and yet, all she could make out was a shape wrapped in shadows thanks to the strategic position of the desk lamp, which concealed his features with its brightness.  
  
Tom ushered her to an armchair far from where her mystery man was sitting and then took a seat across from her closer to the desk.  
  
“How do you feel?” asked the silken voice.  
  
“As if I'd been run over by a herd of elephants,” she replied, letting out a deep breath.  
  
“I'm sorry. I'd made you a promise, and I pride myself on being a man of my word. My partner... .”    
  
“You mean [i]Tom[/i]. He's taken all the blame upon himself and, finally, shown his face,” she cut him off, a clear note of censure in her voice which seemed to suggest a challenge addressed to her interlocutor to get him to follow his partner's lead.  
  
“I understand your anger... .”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“I'm only thinking of what's best for your safety.”  
  
“Is that the truth? Is the thought of my protection what prevents you from stepping out of the shadows or is there something else?”  
  
“I invited you to come down because I thought you'd like to know why you're here and what lies ahead.”  
  
“And what is that, now that I can identify one of you? I'm not naïve. “  
  
“I know it must be difficult for you to believe anything that comes from my mouth after what happened yesterday, but...”  
  
Annabelle made an attempt to steel herself against that voice which he used like a gifted musician. He sounded so sincere that her resolve to put an end to the inexplicable attraction between them was soon defeated. After all, hadn't his arms been the ones to hold her and his gentle hands the ones to soothe her through the waves of nausea, the cold sweat and the unstoppable shaking which seized her body as her system absorbed the serum Tom had injected her?  
  
“Try me,“ she replied. “When I entered this room you told me you'd summoned me to share your plans for me. “  
  
“I can't let you go. Not until whoever sold out your source is identified and stopped.”  
  
Annabelle was still as intrigued as the very first day. Weren't her abductors FSB agents and weren't they the ones behind all the killings? Or was this a case of a pair of cleaners shadowing a rogue Russian agent who was carrying out some kind of personal vendetta?  
  
“Eight years ago MI5 discovered there was a Russian mole in their midst. Nobody knew their identity and so Harry Pearce decided to send his most trusted officer to follow the trail back to Moscow,” he began. “ Haven't you ever asked yourself why your boss has kept you in the dark this long?”  
  
“The dying man... he... he was MI5? Is that what you're saying? Are you suggesting someone in Section D sold out one of their own? That my co-workers are the real enemy and that Sir Harry's involved? I don't believe you.”  
  
Memories of the night she hadn't been able to shake off in months assaulted her once again. Had the dying man been sent to an early grave by the same people he must have trusted to keep his back so many times in defence of the realm? She'd spent a few hours with him in a dark room, listening to his cracking voice and sharing in his agony. His courage and his endurance, his readiness to go through hell and give his life to spare hundreds had left an indelible mark on her. The man had known too much; he must have been either a repentant FSB agent or a British spy who'd managed to penetrate the impregnable fortress of the Russian intelligence headquarters and learn its secrets.  
  
“Sir Harry would have never betrayed one of his own,” she added softly, refusing to believe that the man who'd been her surrogate father wasn't what she thought he was.  
  
She hated doubting her mentor and yet, she couldn't help but remember her conviction that Harry hadn't been absolutely sincere with her when it came to their asset's death. At the time she'd thought the lie had to do with the way the man had died; there had been a minute there when she'd believed her boss involved in hastening the man's passing to spare him any further agony. But even that suspicion had shown the head of Section D in a humane light, nothing like this. Could it be Harry had instead been lying about everything?  
  
“If what you're suggesting is true... If he felt his own superior had abandoned him, betrayed him,” she replied, swallowing the big lump in her throat,”then why didn't he give us Pearce's name? Why...”  
  
"What do you know of an operation called Sugarhorse?" he  interrupted her quietly.  
  
“I've never heard of it. And even if I had, I would never share government secrets with the enemy.”  
  
“I'm not the enemy.”  
  
“Then show your face and tell me who you are.”  
  
“There would be no harm in that now. She's more than earned it. Don't you think it's time?” voiced Tom, looking at the man behind the desk.  
  
The tension in the room suddenly increased. She liked Tom better after the unexpected outburst; but doubted it would make much of a difference. The man in the shadows had a quiet determination and strength which she suspected would hardly be swayed when challenged.  
  
“Leave us,” replied the mystery man.  
  
“I don't think...”  
  
“Don't you trust Miss Reed, Tom? “  
  
“It's OK, Tom. I promise I won't attack him. And I'm sure he has no intention of ravishing me. So you see, I think we'd both be safe if left alone in a room,” she smirked. “Don't you agree?” she asked the man in the dark after a short pause.  
  
                                                                                         * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*  
  
“Я не тот, кто вы думаете. “  
  
“If you aren't who I think you are, then why don't you reveal yourself? I'm tired of riddles and darkness, aren't you?”  
  
“Sometimes darkness is all there is.”  
  
 _“Look on the rising sun: there God does live,_  
 _And gives his light, and gives his heat away;_  
 _And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive_  
 _Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday._  
  
 _And we are put on earth a little space,_  
 _That we may learn to bear the beams of love;_  
 _And these black bodies and this sunburnt face_  
 _Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove._  
  
 _For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,_  
 _The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,_  
 _Saying: "Come out from the grove, my love & care,_  
 _And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.''_  
  
“You like Blake?”  
  
“And you like poetry. So did the man I heard dying that night. What was he to you? He wrapped himself in shadows when he learnt a woman was going to debrief him. What is it that you don't want me to see? “  
  
“I'll ask Tom to get you some poetry books. If there's any other favourite apart from Blake, let him know. It'll give you something to while away the hours during my absence,” he replied after a pregnant pause, skirting round the question he obviously didn't intend to answer.  
  
“Your absence?”  
  
“You're staying here, where it's safe. Tom's going to look after you. I swear we won't let whoever's behind this get to you or harm you in any way.”  
  
“How long will you be away?”  
  
“I thought you'd welcome the reprieve. You'll miss me?” he teased her with a smile in his voice.  
  
“There would have to be feelings of closeness involved for me to miss you, and you are just not my type.”  
  
“And who's more your type? Him?” he asked, pointing at the grainy black and white photograph which had trigged the events of the previous day.  
  
“Do I hear a hint of jealousy in your voice?”  
  
“You can do better than him, Annabelle.”  
  
“I thought any misconceptions you might have had about the nature of my relationship with him were dispelled yesterday. I thought you believed me.”  
  
“And I do. It's him I don't trust,” he said coldly.  
  
“Is he the mole?”  
  
“Probably. But even if he weren't, he's an unsavoury character; one I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy.”  
  
“Why do I have the feeling there's history between you two?”  
  
“You're right; there is. However, my reservations have nothing to do with a personal vendetta. They go way beyond that. I promise I'll tell you the story one day, but not today.”  
  
“In our line of business, we rarely get the luxury of living up to promises made for another day. The Latin adage [i]Carpe Diem[/i] is part of our world.”  
  
“Somehow I don't think you fit the mould. Seizing the day would never be enough for someone like you. “  
  
“I'll take that as a compliment.”  
  
“It was meant that way.”  
  
“Why won't you show me your face?”  
  
“Reality seldom lives up to one's expectations.”  
  
“I'd have never thought of you as an insecure person. “  
  
“Annabelle...”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I... “  
  
Whatever confession, if any, he was about to make got interrupted by Tom's untimely barging into the room.  
  
“I'm sorry,” apologised the intruder. “You'd better hurry. There's been an unexpected development.”  
  
“Это прощание, затем,“ the man in the shadows said softly.  
  
                                                                                            * ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*  
  
 _прощайте._ Goodbye... not 'See you later'. His last word had sounded too much like a farewell, and the echo of finality in that greeting still did odd things to her stomach.  
  
Curiously, it wasn't her well-being but her captor's she was worried about as she lay on her bed. Fear assailed her waking hours and she found herself willing his safe return. It wasn't until the  wee small hours of the morning, when she managed to fall asleep, that her disquiet was replaced  with images of assuaging a passion whose power threatened to burn everything in its path.  
  
It was as if they'd been predestined, as if their souls and their fates had been entangled long ago. It was the only way she could explain this overwhelming urge to have his lips and fingers touch her face and her skin once again.  
  
And in her dreams she surrendered to the shadows and let them wrap her in their alluring warmth.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The extract of the poem which Annabelle recited to Lucas is from "The Little Black Boy" by William Blake.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole. This fic is my own version of Series 7.

The days dragged on, and Annabelle toyed with different plans to run away now that she was no longer restrained, plans which she discarded one by one. Although a few weeks ago she'd have celebrated being alone in the house with Tom, for it would have made her escape a lot more feasible, now she felt more protected around her kidnappers than around those whose allegiances she no longer trusted.

True to the promise she'd been made, several volumes of poetry and Russian literature appeared on her bedside table the following day. They helped her while away the hours, but they did little to assuage the sudden inexplicable fear which had seized her as one day turned into two and then three and he didn't return. What was it about this man that had managed to tap a cord within her no adult male ever had? Why did the thought of never being able to hear his voice again or see his face at last filled her with such a sense of overwhelming loss?

"It's been four days... Tom, where has he gone?"she asked one morning, unable to keep pretending indifference any longer.

"Annabelle..."

"I know when someone says goodbye and believes it might be forever."

"You returned your dinner tray untouched last night. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold."

"I'm not hungry."

"If he finds you half-starved when he comes back, he'll have my precious neck."

"I won't let either you or whoever's out there killing my unit strip me of the last shred of control I have over my life. Nobody's going to order me when to eat."

"I thought you liked me."

"I was starting to until you got patronising."

"Patronising?"

"What is this conversation if not patronising? You want me to believe I'm not here as a prisoner but as a guest. You want me to trust you, to believe you only had my best interest at heart when you abducted me from my own home. And yet you lie to me- even if it is by omission- and treat me like a fool."

"He's strong and resourceful," he replied after a pregnant silence.

"That doesn't answer my original question."

"It's the only answer I have."

"The only one you have? Or the only one you're willing to give?"

* * *

"It was high time," exhaled Tom on seeing Lucas cross the threshold. "What in heaven's name happened?"

"You want the long or the short version?"

"The abridged will do till the morning. How long has it been since you last slept?"

"You know the answer to that one better than anyone."

Yes, it'd been a foolish question to ask. Lucas' nightmares had awoken Tom and Christine many a time, and finding their friend sitting in the dark in the middle of the night had become a common occurrence. Lucas and insomnia had been close friends ever since his return from Russia.

"So...what happened?"

"Your wife's contact is dead. He was murdered in the archives at Thames House and so was the junior case officer who apparently witnessed the execution- Ben Kaplan. Same MO. Did you know him?"

"No, he must have joined when Carter was appointed. What about the CCTV cameras?"

"There was a power cut in Section D and the emergency generator failed to respond. By the time Malcolm fixed the problem and the cameras were back on both operatives were dead."

"No doubt it was an inside job. Have you talked to Harry?"

"Oh, yes," he smirked, pouring himself a shot of vodka.

"What did he say?"

"We had a very illuminating chat."

"And...?"

"And... what about you? Any problems I should know of?"

"So this is how we're going to play it. You know what? I have a wife I haven't seen in four days, and I too need to catch up on some sleep. Why don't you go to Annabelle's room and tell her you're back? We both know it's what you want and, judging by the way she's behaved since you were gone, I believe you'll find out she does too."

"You don't know what you're saying."

"You've sacrificed eight years of your life. Whatever it is you found out in your tête-à-tête with Harry can wait a few hours or you'd have already shared it with me. You deserve to be a little selfish for a change."

"Enough people have got hurt already."

"Annabelle's a smart young woman, Lucas. At least, grant her the right to decide what it is that she wants."

* * *

She felt the ghost of his lips brush her fingers and then press a soft kiss on the quickened pulse of her delicate wrists. Annabelle turned in her sleep, making an unconscious effort to shake off the cruel taunting of the recurrent dream.

Just as it happened every night, she responded to him, raising from her lonely bed to rest against the security of his body.

"Annabelle," whispered the voice she missed in her waking hours. "Annabelle," insisted the chocolatey baritone.

Lucas felt the soft caress of her fingers on his scalp as she buried them in his hair. Sitting on the edge of her bed, he found their movement erotically soothing and her body pressed to his sweetly inviting. Her delicate perfume was proving hard to resist, but it wasn't until he knew for sure she was awake and not just dreaming that he responded to her call, crushing her against his chest and burying his face in the chamomile-scented softness of her hair.

Lowering his head, he grazed the hollow of her collarbone with his lips and then kissed her shoulder before tracing the milky column of her throat. His touch was as light as a feather and yet it sent her heart racing. The brush of his lips was sensually tantalising, first against her temples and then her closed eyes, until the long-awaited moment arrived when he sought her mouth in a scorching kiss which left both of them breathless.

"You missed me," he murmured softly, his forehead leaning against hers, clearly overwhelmed by her eager response.

"When four days went by and you didn't come..." she whispered, her voice cracking as her hand stroked his cheek.

"I should have shaved first," he said sheepishly.

"I like it like this," she smiled, feeling his masculine stubble. "You can clean up in the morning... I was so afraid..."

"I've made you a promise, _Golubushka,"_ he replied warmly, gathering her against his body, "and I have every intention of keeping it. Nobody'll ever hurt you again."

Annabelle relished his embrace and wished she could tell him openly her fear had had nothing to do with her own safety, but rather with the disquieting thought which had plagued her as days went by, that she might never get to hear his voice again. Confessing that particular secret would give him even more power over her than he already had.

"It wasn't my original intention to be away for so long."

"Was your meeting with someone from Section D?"

"Annabelle..." he began, tucking a few strands of her hair behind her ears.

"Just tell me you had nothing to do with our asset's death... or with Adam and Dr Delaney's," she interrupted him, a barely disguised tone of hopeful pleading in her voice.

"Клянусь, я этого не сделал," he answered quickly.

He swore he didn't. And- God help her if she was deluding herself- she believed him. Maybe she was just choosing to believe what she wished was the truth to justify this powerful attraction between them and the step she was about to take, but she was tired of fighting. She'd known from the start that he'd break her, only she'd thought it'd entail betraying other people's secrets and not losing her heart.

Shaky fingers undid the buttons of his shirt and then slipped inside the opening to feel the smoothness of his skin. Broad shoulders and shapely upper-arms were traced with delicate strokes that scabbed a hundred wounds. Fingertips explored long uncharted territories, seeking to read in the surprisingly slender contours the secret past he kept hidden from the world.

In the dark, touch was the only language they used to learn each other, and the unhurried unveiling of what lay beneath the clothing that separated them rendered the exploration infinitely sensual. His long-fingered hands outlined her curves with gentle strokes in much the same way a painter sketches on a canvas before executing a masterpiece. And as she felt the cool of the room kiss her feverish skin while his hands journeyed upward, gradually exposing her body to his lips, Annabelle arched her pliant body like an instrument eager to be played.

Kissing the hollow between her generous breasts, already free from the confines of her nightdress, Lucas felt her heart beat like a frightened animal's. It had been a long time for him, eight years without knowing a woman's touch or experiencing the communion of two souls like the one he'd only known with Vyeta, and his well-known control was hanging by a thread. He lowered his head once again and blew a warm puff of air over her breast; and there it came, a sob. He'd let his selfish needs blind him and misread the signs.

Slowly he pulled away; he'd been deprived of the power to decide his own destiny and suffered the manipulation of a ruthless jailer not to know what must be going though her mind.

"I promised I wouldn't let anyone hurt you again, and that includes me," he murmured, pressing a kiss into her palm. "I know what it feels like to have the control over your life snatched away, Annabelle. Maybe you believe that giving yourself to me is the only bargaining chip you've got to keep yourself safe."

"It isn't like that..."

"You don't need to lie to me. I have never taken advantage of a woman, and I'm not about to start now, no matter how enticing the offer. "

"I thought you wanted me," she said shakily as he sat up on the bed.

"I still do. But not like this, not ruled by fear. Not unless you're willing to come to me freely. I don't want it to be a sacrifice; there's already been too much of that. Go to sleep, _Golubushka._ "

"Stay," she stopped him, grabbing his hand when she felt him pull away. "Stay with me tonight," she pleaded, not caring if she revealed the full extent of her feelings for him. "Just hold me."

"I'm afraid I'm not that strong. If I stay tonight, I'll do a lot more than just holding you. It's been too long... I'm no good at playing games," he added softly, stroking her cheek.

"It isn't a game," she replied, her eyes welling up.

"Then why are you crying?" he asked with an indefinable emotion in his voice, feeling the wetness of her tears on his fingertips.

"I don't know... I only know that I care about you. You must think me crazy, but from the first moment I heard your voice I felt a connection with you, as if I recognised you. And when you touched me... it felt right when common sense told me it shouldn't."

"You don't know anything about me," he said quietly.

"I don't need to see what you look like or to learn what you're called to know who you are. "

"How do you know I am the one you think me to be? Most of the times even I don't know who I am any more. "

Sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her, Lucas felt her reach in the darkness that enveloped them and take his hand once again and, in a gesture which mirrored his, press a kiss on his palm.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked after a long pregnant silence.

She nodded against the hand she still held to her cheek.

With slow and sensuous movements he pulled her down to lie next to him, his lips nudging against the throbbing pulse of her neck and then tracing her milky breasts in search of her pebbled peaks. Annabelle's long legs soon fell apart involuntarily to cradle him and welcome his demanding caresses, which fanned the molten lava that was already coursing through her veins.

Finally surrounded by her liquid warmth, Lucas felt unexpected tears burn behind his eyelids. It wasn't fair; but then nothing is fair in this world. He'd told himself a night was all he could give her, that he was no longer the man he used to be, that he could have her once and walk away unscathed. He'd been wrong on all three counts.

* * *

"Is everything all right?" she murmured sensing his strange mood, her face resting on his chest as they both caught their breath and their galloping heartbeat returned to normal.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking that question?" he chuckled, gathering her to him.

"I have no regrets." She turned around in his arms, soothed by the caressing sound of his voice and the fading fragrance of his aftershave. "I never knew I could feel that way," she added emotionally, curving her urge to touch his face and learn his features.

Lowering his mouth towards her, he tasted her lips gently, coaxing her to invite him in. She acquiesced, knowing their borrowed time would soon come to an end.

Whispered endearments in Russian poured out of his mouth the moment his lips found moisture on its trail.

"Love me again," she begged him as his thumbs carefully wiped away her tears.

And he did. His musky perfume on her sheets was the only proof Annabelle found in the morning to convince her their intimate time together hadn't been a dream once again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole. This fic is my own version of Series 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

 

“Christine says the bait's already in place. Do you think our friend will turn up?”  
  
“He wants me. He knows I can blow up his cover. The fact that they haven't caught him so far means I haven't talked about him yet, or so he thinks. He can't run the risk of letting me live. He'll take the bait. Trust me, Tom.”  
  
“Who is he, Lucas?”  
  
“Do you remember the story I told you the night we got drunk and decided to apply to MI5?”  
  
“The stuff of nightmares. How could I ever forget? Was he part of it? I thought they were all dead.”  
  
“So did I. And in a way he is. He's changed his name, but I'm the only one who's seen his face and  knows about his past. And his being identified as a Russian mole by the British Service will be a picnic compared to what will happen to him when his involvement in this whole other business comes to light. He knows there won't be any deals with the Russians to save his skin the way mine was.”  
  
“Shouldn't we tell Annabelle?”  
  
“He won't see her, so there's no need.”  
  
“Lucas.....”  
  
“Leave it, Tom. We can't all have your happy ending.”  
  
“That's the most foolish thing I've ever heard you say. When this is over...”  
  
“When this is over, she'll go back to her old life. And if God is fair, she'll meet and marry someone who's whole and can make her happy.”  
  
“Are you sure that's what she wants? Have you asked her”  
  
“Have you had a real good look at me lately, Tom?”  
  
“I only see someone who's throwing away a once-in-a-lifetime chance to find happiness with a woman who would never judge a book by its cover. I've never thought I'd ever call you a coward, but I can't think of a better word to describe you right now.”

* * *

 

  
Annabelle was still asleep when Tom knock on the door. It was well past ten in the morning and not only was she in bed, she was in the nude.  
  
Rushing to slip on the nightdress that had been discarded the previous night, she did her best to straighten up the sheets and the pillow on which her lover's perfume had lingered as proof that their night hadn't been just a dream. Composed, she allowed Tom in.  
  
She closed her eyes both to savour the fragrance of the freshly-brewed coffee and cover up the embarrassment provoked by the knowledge that Tom must be aware she hadn't slept alone this time.  
  
Hoping her discomfiture wasn't showing on her face, she finally reached for the wicker tray to place it across her lap and met Tom's eyes, seeing an indefinable emotion reflected in them. Overwhelmed by a sudden tightening in her throat, she glanced down to find a tea rose lying next to the cup. _I'll remember. Always_. She caressed the fragile petals and felt the burning of treacherous tears threatening to roll down her cheeks. The flower was but a reminder of what she knew in her heart. They were loving on borrowed time.  
  
“Bon appetit,” he said gently, stepping out into the corridor and closing the door quietly behind him. He no longer bothered to engage the lock, and it'd been days since the last time he tied her hands. It appeared he'd known her heart even before she did. She wouldn't escape. How could she when she was being held prisoner by her own feelings for the man in the dark?

  
Once her breakfast was over, she buried her nose in the pillow and inhaled the fragrance she knew she'd be able to recognise years from now. The urge to stay in bed away from the outside world, alone with the memories they'd made, was strong. It was no longer easy to tell right from wrong, to do her duty no questions asked and, for the first time since her abduction, she found herself hoping that Harry and her team would believe her dead. It was preposterous to think she'd be able to return to her old life and pretend. Maybe he'd been right after all, she wasn't cut out to be a spook; she'd never been good at lying. She'd promised a night was all that she wanted from him...  _Seizing the day would never be enough for someone like you_... Even in the dark he knew her heart better than anyone.

* * *

  
“Come with me.”  
  
“Did he say yes?” she asked Tom, hating the quiver in her voice.  
  
“He's waiting for you in the library.  Annabelle...”  
  
“Take me downstairs, Tom,” she cut him off, fearing she'd break down if he voiced what she'd read in his eyes.  
  
Although the room that seemed to be the mystery man's refuge during his waking hours was just a couple of flights away, it felt as if it lay an ocean away, judging by the way time seemed to drag on until they reached the door.  
  
“Come in,” commanded the voice which never failed to turn her into a quivering mass.  
  
Once again the strategically placed lamp on his desk concealed his identity. Nothing seemed to have changed and yet everything had.  
  
“I can see regret written on your face. I knew you'd have second thoughts come morning... I should have been stronger and left you alone... I'm sorry. I should have...”  
  
“Please, don't,” she interrupted him. “You did nothing I hadn't ask for. We were two consenting adults, and I can't say in all honesty I regret anything about last night. God help me, I would do it again given the chance. It isn't us being together that I regret, never that.”  
  
“If not that then what?” he asked softly.  
  
“I can't go back to whom I was and lie to Harry and everyone who's ever trusted in me by pretending I didn't betray them... I can't pretend there's never been an us... I don't even want to... What does that make me if not a traitor?”  
  
“I've seen betrayal in the face and nothing you've done ever since I met you identifies you as a traitor. You're a survivor. There's no shame in that. You've been abducted, drugged and interrogated for days on end and not once have you done anything you should apologise to Sir Harry or anyone for. “  
  
“I betrayed a colleague. I gave you a name.”  
  
“You gave me nothing I hadn't had already.”  
  
“I don't understand... The picture...”  
  
“I needed to see your reaction and verify that the name he was using wasn't Carter. I had intel from within your very own unit that pointed at you and your former chief of section as FSB moles. Your asset was sold by someone you probably used to sit across from on The Grid too. If you're looking for anyone to blame for treachery, look at Thames House not in the mirror... Annabelle... when this is over, go back to the life you knew before you were recruited. Someone as pure-hearted as you shouldn't be part of Sir Harry's world or mine.”  
  
“Please... why won't you let me see you?” she begged him, eager to see the face of the man whose tenderness and solicitude were so at odds with the image of a ruthless spy and kidnapper.”What are you so afraid of? My hands have already learned you... You're a little above six feet tall. You're broad-shouldered and athletic, though somewhat undernourished for some reason... It makes me wish I were a better cook,” she smiled.”You have long-fingered hands that remind me of a musician's... and you're probably in bad need of a haircut... Although something tells me women would  find you attractive even with shoulder-length hair,” she chuckled.     
  
A long silence ensued and, already attuned to his moods, she realised something about her words had affected him in a way she hadn't predicted.  
  
“You've described an idealised version of who you think I am. Dreams are seldom true, Annabelle. They're just that, dreams. I'd hate to see yours shattered.”  
  
“Nothing can change the way you make me feel,” she murmured, wishing she could look into his eyes and read his emotions the way she'd learnt to read the nuances of his voice.  
  
“Annabelle... Soon you'll return to your world and look back at our time together as you would a dream. I'm your jailer and you're my captive held against her will.That's what you'll tell Sir Harry and the world.”  
  
“I'd know that isn't the truth or, at least, not the whole truth.”  
  
“That's between you and me and that's the way it'll stay.”  
  
“These aren't the Middle Ages nor am I a damsel in distress whose virtue needs to be protected.”  
  
“Leave me my dreams of chivalry; it's the only thing I can offer you,[i] Golubushka[/i]. Let me give you at least that.”  
  
“Can't you tell me your name?”  
  
“You know I can't. It'd complicate matters even more. My God, Annabelle, it's never been my intention to hurt you.”  
  
“Then don't. I'm a grown-up woman, old enough to make a conscious choice and live with it.”  
  
“You'll hate me when this is all over,.. You deserve better... ”  
  
“I won't hate you. And I'm too flawed to be put on a pedestal.”  
  
“You promised, Annabelle. Your promised it'd be my way.”  
  
“I lied. I would have said yes to anything you asked of me if it meant I could be with you last night.”

* * *

  
The sun was setting as she sat on her bed in her favourite nightdress, brushing her long hair and wondering like every night if tonight would be their last.  
  
He'd told her everything would be over soon, that she'd be free, free to go back to her former life. Only she didn't want to be free, not if it meant being away from him.  
  
Would it be so wrong if she decided not to come back and to ask him to take her with him instead? She wasn't her accomplice after all; he hadn't ask her to do anything for him and as long as he didn't demand she betray her people... they wouldn't be hurting anyone.In all probability Harry and her team thought her dead already, so what difference would it make if she stayed dead? No one would need to know the truth.  
  
“Come in,”  she said quietly, feeling her heart flutter in her chest.  
  
Annabelle wondered how long she'd been sitting in the shadows, so absorbed had she been in her thoughts. But he'd come to her, despite everything he'd said earlier, and that was the only thing that mattered. And as the door closed behind him, and they found themselves standing just a breath away in the dark, the world outside stopped spinning once again and it was just them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole. Alternate Series 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

“I was so afraid of the dark growing up,” she murmured, feeling the unmistakably subtle scent of sandalwood and musk envelope her.  
  
“And now?” he asked quietly, leaning over Annabelle with his elbows propped on either side of her to bring their bodies tantalisingly closer.  
  
“I love hearing your voice in the dark,” she confessed as he traced her features with gentle caresses.  
  
“Only my voice, _Ангел мой_?” he whispered teasingly before taking possession of her lips in a languid kiss which eventually turned into a sensual duel as Annabelle's fingers ran through his hair and then journeyed down to his broad shoulders.  
  
As soon as the kiss was broken she felt her long chestnut tresses spill down her back.  
  
“I love you like this,” he told her, burying his nose in her hair and pressing a kiss on that very special spot behind her ear which he'd discovered would set her heart racing the way his was with the anticipation of making her his once again.  
  
Annabelle wondered if it was possible for eyes to burn in the dark for she was scorching under his gaze.It made her wish she could actually see herself reflected in them.  
  
Untangling her fingers from his silky hair, she daringly touched his face and grazed his trademark stubble. She traced the thin-lipped mouth and then moved up to his strong nose. Emboldened by his acquiescence, she continued her exploration towards the bridge of his nose and the arch of his eyebrows only to be stopped when she was about to start the descending journey.  
  
“Things are beautiful if you love them.“ she whispered, sensing the sudden tension which had seized his body.  
  
“Annabelle...”  
  
“Shh... It's just you and me in the dark. Don't let any ghosts spoil what little time we might have left,” she silenced him  
  
 _“Где ты был все это время?“_ he replied to her tentative caresses.  
  
 _Where have you been all this time?_  
  
“ _Ожидание_ ,“ she sighed as their bodies became one once again.  
  
 _Waiting for you_.

* * *

  
“ _Ведьма_ ,“ he gasped against her lips, struggling to catch his breath in the afterglow.  
  
“A witch, am I?” she echoed, responding to his kiss with fervour and fighting the tears which had welled up in her eyes.  
  
“ _Я не помню, как говорить по-английски, когда я с тобой_ ,“ he replied, tightening his arms around her as if he feared she might bolt and never come back.  
  
“Well, then you're lucky that I remember my Russian quite well or else how would we communicate?” she teased him, trying to make light of the emotional mood they were both in.  
  
“ _Golubushka_...”  
  
“What is it?” she asked, hearing the hesitation in his voice and dreading the words she knew he'd utter; his languorous lovemaking and desperate clinging to her in the aftermath had felt like goodbye.  
  
“I want you to know that... no matter what happens after tonight... I'll never forget,” he said into the darkness as she rested her head on his chest and let him embrace her; the tears she'd held back finally rolling down her cheeks.

* * *

  
  
She was deeply asleep when the sound of his mobile phone vibrating on the bedside table intruded into her dreams. By the time he picked up the call she was wide awake. However, she snuggled against him and closed her eyes, making a conscious effort to obliterate the outside world that persevered in piercing the fragile cocoon which enveloped them.  
  
“Yes,” he answered quietly, changing the mobile to his other ear and shifting his body gently not to disturb her.  
  
“It's Pearce,” she heard the speaker on the other end say before his indistinct voice was muffled.  
  
Harry. Annabelle's heart skipped a beat. Was her mentor the man her captor was listening to so attentively without uttering a word? Was Harry the traitor in their midst? Or was the man who'd made such tender love to her conspiring to condemn her foster father to the same destiny as that of Adam and the man in the castle's?  
  
Once he'd hung up the phone, she remained still, pretending to be asleep, and then pulled away as if irritated in her sleep when he stretched out next to her and put his arm around her waist again.  
  
The delicate stroke of his tender hand against her bare back was a form of bittersweet torture and made maintaining the charade doubly difficult, but her acting skills triumphed in the end, and he settled with his back to hers, respecting the distance she'd put between them.  
  
A long time went by until the sound of his breathing convinced her it was safe to slip away. She trusted his word that no harm would come to her and knew it'd be foolish to risk her liberation. However, she couldn't stop thinking about the phone call and the name she'd overheard. There was no way she'd stand idly by while others got killed or tortured. She'd never be able to live with the guilt. She had to warn someone.  
  
Getting orientated in the dark took her a little while when she found herself in the corridor, having left the door ajar for fear of waking him up with the noise of the latch being engaged. Barefoot she moved towards the staircase and climbed down in search of his study. She recognised the room almost immediately and walked in noiselessly going straight to the windows overlooking the gardens. Leaving through them was impossible with the alarm system installed, so that left only one avenue open; she'd have to make the call from the phone on his desk.  
  
Listening to the dial tone, she hesitated as a feeling of betrayal assaulted her. She had to keep remembering herself who she was  and what was at stake if her instincts, blinded by love, had been wrong or if Harry was the man who'd sold out everyone, including her by sharing that grainy picture with the man upstairs.  
  
“Hello,” said the voice on the other end.  
  
“It's me, Annabelle,” she whispered, blinking away a couple of tears of disbelief at getting through so easily.  
  
“Annabelle? God, where are you?! We thought you were dead.”  
  
“I don't know where I am. I only know that it's a house away from London.”  
  
“I'm tracking the number to see if I can locate you.”  
  
“Is Malcolm helping you?”  
  
“No, he's not on the Grid right now.”  
  
“OK. It might be better that way... He's too close to Harry.”  
  
“What are you trying to say?”  
  
“I don't know for sure, but I think that Harry might have something to do with everything that's been going on.”  
  
“You can't be serious.”  
  
“I can't believe it either, but I overheard his name in a phone conversation. There's a good chance he's working with the people who have been holding me prisoner.”  
  
“OK. Mum's the word. Where are you calling from?”  
  
“From the house. I managed to slip downstairs and make a call from the study.”  
  
“How many are they?”  
  
“Two. At least, I haven't seen or heard anyone else since I arrived.”  
  
“Good. Listen, I've got your location. It's going to take me a few hours to get there with back-up, so you'll have to stay put. Leave everything the way you found it, go back upstairs and wait for me.”  
  
Although Annabelle knew the plan made sense, she was suddenly filled with panic.  
  
“Annabelle, are you still there?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I need you to do as I say. We can't risk losing another agent or letting these bastards have their way. I'll be there in a few hours.”  
  
“OK. I'll go back upstairs.”  
  
“Good girl. See you soon.”  
  
Putting the phone down into its cradle, she rested her forehead on top of her hands, which were still gripping the receiver.    
  
Her mind was a jumble of confusion screaming for a solution other than the one she'd promised to carry out. She knew that as soon as they discovered her missing they'd also disappear. She'd promised she'd return to his bed until her rescuers came and leave everything the way she'd found it for her captors not to discover she'd made the call. And yet, she didn't want him to be harmed in any way.  
  
Her lover was a spy, probably an FSB operative, and she was considering letting him escape by staying hidden away. Her absence would be the warning he needed to be safe and avoid any repercussions his role in the demise of the man at the castle might have.  
  
The memory of the courageous man she'd interviewed on his deathbed steeled her against any decision other than the one her principles demanded of her.  
  
Wiping the tears off her cheeks with the back of her hands, she made her way back to the first floor and the darkness which kept the intruding world away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ангел мой means "My angel"


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole. This fic is my own version of Series 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm amongst those who hated the whole John Bateman storyline and wondered what show the writers had been watching for two years to ever come up with the idea that Lucas and Bateman could ever have been the same man. 
> 
> I've put a different spin on the JB affair that I hope you'll approve. Enjoy!

 

Annabelle climbed up the stairs and, wrapped in darkness, navigated the first floor corridor in search of his bedroom. Doubt and regret assailed her as she stopped in front of the door she'd left ajar and heard his even breathing. She'd set the ball in motion and now there was no turning back; she only prayed her decision had been the right one.  
  
Closing the door quietly behind her, she took a few moments to make sure he still slept and then moved towards the bed. Getting back under the covers without waking him up was tricky and made her heart beat in trepidation; what would he do if he were to discover where she'd been?  
  
“You're an ice block, _Golubushka_ ,” he whispered all of a sudden, tightening his hold on her as he spooned her from behind, nuzzling her neck with his nose. Annabelle's heart skipped a beat; had he  been feigning all the time? “Go to sleep. I'll keep you warm,” he added, pressing a kiss on her nape and gathering her closer to him in a move that felt more achingly loving than threateningly possessive.  
  
She told herself she'd just done what was expected of her as a member of the service. She was a cog in the wheel that kept the nation safe. Regnum Defende. It was her job, and so far she'd never questioned it; she'd even felt proud of it. But now she felt resentful and torn. Tasting the salt of tears on her lips, she wondered why duty felt like betrayal all of a sudden.

* * *

  
The first rays of sun were touching her freckled skin when she woke up to find him gone. The imprint of his head on the pillow and the lingering perfume on the sheets were the only visible proof he'd lain next to her.  
  
Looking into the mirror of the mahogany wardrobe across from the bed she noticed her tear-stained face and a pair of eyes which reflected the devastation of heartbreak and guilt. It was a sight that she couldn't allow either man to see.  
  
After a reviving shower she wrapped herself up in a light-blue terry robe and, combing her wet hair, decided to approach the door to try the knob. The latch moved unhindered; further proof they didn't consider her a prisoner but a guest.  
  
Standing in the middle of the corridor she felt tempted to explore the house in daylight but then thought it better and decided to get dressed in her room and wait for Tom to bring her breakfast. She'd promised her colleague she'd go upstairs and wait for the rescue team to arrive. That had been her original plan until the sound of two gunshots and the thud of a body falling stopped her dead in her tracks.  
  
“Now, no more tricks. Where is she? You'd better keep your hands where I can see them or he won't be the only one bleeding today.”  
  
“I'm afraid you've been misinformed. There's no woman in this house,” replied the voice which had murmured Russian endearments in her ear only a few hours before.  
  
“We can make this last for hours. I have an extra clip. So far your friend's wounds aren't lethal... What do you say? One in the knee this time?”  
  
“Stop!” shouted Annabelle, bursting into the library.     
  
The man she'd grown to love these past weeks was seated in a swivel chair behind the desk while the agent who had filled in the vacancy left by Adam Carter was holding a gun against his temple.  Edwards' fingers were pulling her lover's dark head back by the hair, but all she was able to focus on was the strong profile her hands had learnt last night.  
  
“Annabelle, are you all right? “ asked her superior without releasing his prisoner.  
  
“I'm in one piece. We're going to need them alive if we want to discover the truth,” she told him, crouching down next to Tom, who was lying on the carpet but still awake, blood oozing from two gunshot wounds.  
  
“Check him for guns," Edwards ordered her.  
  
Annabelle ran her hands down Tom's body in search of any weapons and felt a finger tapping on her right thigh, the one hidden from Edwards' view. Morse code. The message was repeated three times before Tom's left hand slipped a Walther P99 into the pocket of her terry robe. Her gaze shifted to the wounded man's and saw an imperceptible nod of his head.  
  
“He's clean,” she assured the Chief of Section D, stealing a glance at the profile of the spy she loved.  
  
Edwards turned his body slightly, swivelling the desk chair with his movement and revealing what her captor had sought to conceal with the shelter of darkness. The moment Lucas' face came into full view the world stood still and everything around them simply vanished. Annabelle felt the treacherous pricking of tears at the sight of his handsome visage marred on his left side by the physical reminder of some of the unspeakable demons he still fought alone at night.  
  
Edwards released the seated man's head with a jerk and removed the gun from his temple to bring Tom closer and have both suspects within range. Lucas' beautiful long dark eyelashes, which had been lying on his pale cheeks, fluttered open and a pair of mesmerising blue-grey eyes met Annabelle's across the room for the first time.     
  
“Where's your backup?” she asked her superior, desperate for a lifeline not to drown in the depths of that look, which was a strange mix of strength and vulnerability.  
  
“They should be on their way. It'll be over soon,” Edwards replied, touching her arm reassuringly.  
  
“Why not call CO19 to wrap this up now?” she insisted, moving away from him and crossing her arms over her chest as if she were suddenly cold.  
  
Something didn't add up. She felt it in her bones.The eerie calm of her captors, whose eyes she was able to feel trained on her, made Annabelle suspect they must know she'd contacted Edwards the previous night. They must have been expecting him and decided not to stop him. She hadn't dared look at her mystery man again after his damaged face had been unveiled, but she did so now. His blue-grey eyes were fixed on her alone and revealed nothing, so she based her assumptions mostly on what her honed senses perceived. They were waiting for something.  
  
Despite the fact that Edwards was the one holding the gun, she just knew the man in the swivel chair was the one in control. Should she trust him? She felt the bulk of the protective weapon in her pocket and wondered who she was supposed to use it against.      
  
Suddenly, the pregnant silence that hung over them was broken by the unmistakable sound of a helicopter rotor, and Edwards' apparent cool cracked.  
  
 _Smoke and mirrors._ The mesmerising blue-grey eyes held hers fast as Tom's message in Morse code repeated itself insistently in her mind.  
  
Edwards' face turned several shades paler and a colourful expletive was heard under his breath when he saw the helicopter land on the lawn just across the study.  
  
Getting ready for whoever might step out of the chopper, Annabelle slipped her right hand into the pocket of her robe and felt the comforting presence of the gun Tom had given her. Although she'd never taken a life, this would be as good a time as any to put her excellent marksmanship on the range to the test.  
  
“It's Harry... and Ros,” she told her superior on seeing the Head of Section D alight closely followed by Sir Jocelyn Myers' daughter.  
  
“He's one of them, remember?” replied Edwards after reading an unmistakable note of relief in her voice.  
  
“We have no definite proof of his actual involvement. I only said there might be a connection because I heard his name mentioned and that, until we knew more, it'd be wise to take precautions,” she clarified, noticing his unwavering attention on both prisoners and the persisting tension of his body despite the recently arrived backup. “You know Myers. Her being here should be enough to believe in Harry's innocence. She would never sell out or stand by someone who went rogue.”  
  
The sight of Harry walking across the lawn in their direction reassured Annabelle but also filled her with renewed incertitude. If he wasn't the traitor in their midst, it meant the mole was still at large, pretending he was one of their own while working against them from within.  
  
 _“You can do better than him, Annabelle.”_ Her captor's words rang in her ears again, and all of a sudden a piece of the puzzle fell into place. Edwards' reaction to Harry's arrival had given away his best-kept secret, he was the key to the deaths in Section D and the betrayal of the asset who had laid down his life to bring down Tiresias.  
  
Locking her eyes with her lover's, she voiced her thoughts.  
  
“He's the one, isn't he? You did nothing to stop him so that he could lead you to the man who gave us Tiresias.”  
  
“No, _Golubushka_ ,” replied the beautiful and slightly-accented voice. “I was expecting him because I knew he wouldn't let the opportunity to obliterate the past pass him by. And I was right, wasn't I, J _ohn_? A seasoned agent like you should have known better than to leave loose ends.”    
  
“Shut up!” snapped Edwards, moving away from the French windows and aiming the gun at his prisoner.  
  
Lucas knew riling the man he used to call John Bateman back in Dakar, a lifetime ago, was a dangerous move. And yet the guilt of knowing himself the instrument, albeit unwitting, of all that destruction and death drove him to court his rage as some sort of deserved punishment.  
  
He could still replay doing Bateman a favour by driving to the British Embassy in Dakar to return the man's “girlfriend” a mobile phone she'd supposedly left behind at the older man's flat. It'd been a simple errand on his way to work at the casino. He'd walked into the building, handed the mobile back to the exotic young woman who worked as an assistant there and climbed back in his car. Had it not been for the malfunction of the car ignition, he would have been several blocks away and never found out the role he'd played in the drama. But fate had wanted him to be there and witness the slaughter without being able to stop it when he saw Vaughan's “girlfriend” leave the Embassy, crouch behind a vehicle and dial a number while staring at the building.  
  
Everything that happened between the detonation and his arrival at the bedsitter he rented with an Australian friend he worked with at the casino was a haze. He just remembered getting home to find his flatmate dead and Bateman waiting to finish him off. The fight that had ensued was fierce and ended with Lucas running away from the flat after struggling over Bateman's gun and seeing the agent collapse when it was accidentally fired. His mind in a whirl, Lucas grabbed his passport, a change of clothes and some cash and took a taxi to the airport, making a stop on the way to  make an anonymous call from a payphone, providing the police with Bateman's name and location as well as the woman's description and personal details.  
  
Running into Tom Quinn on his return to Britain had been serendipitous and becoming an MI5 operative became the perfect way to atone for the massacre that even eight years of torture in Lubyanka couldn't erase from his mind and his nightmares.  
  
Annabelle's heart beat like a runaway horse on seeing the muzzle of the weapon a few inches away from  Lucas'  sharp angles and pale skin. She felt for the gun in her pocket and a movement to her left caught her eye. Unfortunately, Edwards noticed it too and reacted swinging his Walther P99 and shooting Tom in his left shoulder before pointing it again at Lucas.  
  
“Edwards!” she shouted at Bateman's alias, holding Tom's gun in her hand and trying to divert the mole's attention away from her mystery man.  
  
Her strategy worked and she found herself at the end of the muzzle and answered to the imminent threat by raising her own weapon and firing smoothly as if she were once again on the range.  
  
The traitor's glazing eyes looked at her with undisguised surprise as the bullet pierced his forehead and life slipped away from him.  
  
Suddenly, Annabelle felt a rush of heat overcome her and her Walther P99 dropped from her nerveless fingers before her wobbly body collapsed on the carpet. Her head was swimming and, lulled by the musky scent of the beautiful stranger's aftershave, she finally let herself be embraced by darkness once again.

* * *

  
The sun was setting when she awoke in a hospital room surrounded by beeping machines.

  
“How do you feel?” asked a smiling Harry Pearce, sitting beside her bed.  
  
“Like a punching ball,” she mumbled.”How's Tom?” she added after a slight pause.  
  
“Still in the operating room. The prognosis is good.”  
  
“And...” she began, closing her eyes,”the _other_ man?”  
  
“In custody with a few cuts and bruises.”  
  
A strangled sob escaped through her lips. Crying was all she'd seemed to be able to do lately.  
  
Harry took her surrogate daughter's hand in his and remained with her in companionable silence until a nurse popped in to give Annabelle a new shot that allowed her to drift back into the blessed oblivion of unconsciousness.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole. This fic is my own version of Series 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.
> 
> I hope this chapter will live up to your expectations. No lovely Lucas here but he definitely isn't out of the picture; there are still four more chapters before the conclusion.

 

  
  
Annabelle slept through her first two days in hospital, only regaining consciousness when a nurse turned up to put some sedative in her IV.  
  
“You're one lucky lady. Everything seems to be working just fine,” her surgeon said as she wiggled her fingers. “You can start your rehab in a week's time and in a few months you can consult a plastic surgeon to take care of the scarring.”  
  
Fortune or divine intervention had wanted her to survive when all the odds were against her; there was no possible explanation for Edwards' missing the target, especially at so close a range. And, knowing what she knew now- that he'd been the one responsible for Adam's death and the others- she couldn't imagine him having second thoughts when it came to shooting her.  
  
She knew that if she hadn't pulled that trigger she wouldn't have been the only one in a hospital bed or worse. Although she did what she had to do and didn't regret shooting him, the fact that he'd been the first death at her hands still rattled her. Even now her captor's words came back to haunt her. _Go back to the life you knew before you were recruited. Someone as pure-hearted as you shouldn't be part of Sir Harry's world and mine._  
  
Whereas she'd almost killed Tom, whom she had come to like, with a simple phone call, she'd had the man she knew she still loved sent to prison. Leaning back against the pillow in her hospital bed, she suddenly yearned for her old life where her most difficult everyday decisions were what to cook for dinner or whether to give a promising but lazy student a second chance.   
  


* * *

  
  
Three weeks after the shooting she was back in her flat; her right arm in a harness, making the most menial of tasks burdensome. She couldn't wait for her rehab to be over so that she could cook her own meals, instead of living on takeaway food, and enjoy a bubble bath without fearing she would get stuck in the tub and turn into a prune.  
  
She thanked Jo's solicitude and friendship, especially the first few days until she organised herself and felt stronger after having spent a fortnight in bed. Harry checked on her every other day with a phone call when things slowed down on The Grid and came over to visit her with Ruth one Saturday night.  
  
Annabelle observed her mentor and Miss Evershed over dinner with a certain tinge of envy. She hated the feeling because, despite the fact that their acquaintance was very recent, she truly liked Ruth and considered her just the kind of person she'd wished Harry would have in his life. It was simply the pain of knowing she might have had the same if fate had dealt her different cards; if she and the man she loved and lost weren't who they were.  
  
She and Harry were sitting in the living-room while Ruth brewed some coffee in the kitchen and dished up the luscious chocolate cake they'd brought for dessert.   
  
“I suppose we can't ignore the big elephant in the room any more,” murmured Harry matter-of-factly.  
  
Even though both were reluctant to rehash things which they wished they could forget, putting off this discussion wouldn't make her heartbreak disappear. Maybe she'd never be ready to hear the whole story, but she needed to listen to it just as she needed to have a dozen questions answered.  
  
"Bateman came to MI5 highly recommended," Harry began. “Still, the usual protocol was followed to the letter and he was checked out. We left no stone unturned, or so we thought. It turns out Connie James had prepared all the fake paper trail necessary to make sure he came clean and was accepted by the service. She´d fabricated a completely new identity that erased his past as John Bateman, the bomber of the British Embassy in Dakar and the man whose new life and mission as a member of Tiresias would eventually be jeopardised by the return of a ghost from his past.”  
  
"The asset I debriefed at the castle that night?”  
  
"It wasn't meant to end up the way it did. Arkady and I had a deal; it was supposed to be a clean exchange, but it appears Edwards... _Bateman_... was reporting to his FSB handler when he overheard my phone conversation with Kachimov in which the name of the asset was mentioned. Bateman recognised it immediately and tried to talk Arkady out of the exchange without success. There was too much at risk; the Russians needed the man we were willing to hand over. Unfortunately for our asset, under Edwards' instigation, Arkady sanctioned a last session of torture to try to discover the extent to which Tiresias had been compromised, including the names of the moles in MI5 whose covers might be at risk.”  
  
“It was a reckless decision.”  
  
“Kachimov used to be a master of his art... He knew how far to go and when to stop. He made sure our asset was still breathing in time for the exchange. Arkady had no way out, he had to cover his tracks. Edw... Bateman... had him where he wanted him. You see, Kachimov hadn't informed the Kremlin he'd made a deal with us... Although the truth is Arkady hdd been working for us too since the Cold War... He was part of our own Tiresias, Sugarhorse.”  
  
Sugarhorse. Annabelle remembered the code name which had been part of her own interrogation not so long ago. She should say something... It'd seemed very important to him at the time and yet... telling Harry would feel like a betrayal of sorts. What did that make her? Maybe her beautiful scarred love was right; she hadn't been born for lies and treachery.  
  
“Was the asset MI5? Was he one of us, Harry?”   
  
Annabelle knew Harry well enough to read embarrassment and regret in the silence that ensued.  
  
"I sat in that room and listened to him die a slow and painful death," she said softly. “My old self tells me I should regret taking a life, and I'm scared because I can't find it in me to regret ever pulling that trigger and ending Bateman's life, not after that November night in the castle... I've never compromised us, Harry.”  
  
"I know, Annabelle. I've never doubted you."  
  
She wondered if his confidence in her would be so forthcoming were he to know she'd slept with the enemy.   
  
"Did Adam give Bateman my name?" Considering what Carter had been subjected to, she wouldn't have blamed him if he had. It'd explain how her kidnapping had come about.  
  
“I don't think so. I believe Adam protected you till the very end by not revealing either that you had been with him at the castle or, most importantly, that it was you who had debriefed our asset."  
  
As grateful as she was to Adam, she couldn't help but feel the anguish of guilt over the death of a man who'd died protecting her, leaving his only son an orphan.  
  
“Annabelle...”  
  
"What is it?"   
  
“You know there may be others like Bateman interested in finding the man who managed to single-handedly bring down a network of spies that took decades to set in place, a man who might have stored a lot more than a Cold War file in his mind thanks to his prodigious memory."  
  
“But our asset is dead.”  
  
“That is something they don't know.”  
  
What was Harry trying to do? Was his intention to shelter her? Or did he believe it was time for her to go back to her old life?  
  
“Was the asset the agent you'd sent to infiltrate the Russian secret service?”  
  
“Is that what your captor told you?”  
  
“Stop answering a question with another question, Harry. He was telling the truth, wasn't he? Eight years, Harry. Is that how the service treats its people? We abandoned him. He was one of us and … we...”  
  
“Why don't you say it, Annabelle? You're a linguist. Let's use pronouns appropriately, shall we? It was I who sent him to his death; and it wasn't the service but I who forsook him. Isn't that what you mean?”  
  
“Harry...”  
  
“No.I know very well how I failed him, and he paid dearly for that; we both did. He was the closest thing to a son I've ever had. I moved heaven and earth to bring him back, even when Whitehall ordered me to stop. I never lost hope... I regret so much I couldn't get to him in time... What they did to him... When you disappeared, Annabelle... it felt as if history were repeating itself. This job had already cost me three children- two of them my own flesh and blood. I wasn't ready to lose a fourth.”  
  
“And yet I was a suspect...”   
  
"I wouldn't have been doing my job if I'd let my personal feelings rule my decisions. All the members of the team were considered suspects. I'd given Malcolm orders to monitor everyone's computers and intercept all calls in and out of The Grid. I was at home when you contacted Bateman and Malcolm alerted me."  
  
"I could have sworn they knew you were coming."  
  
"No, it was Bateman they were expecting. Your call simply put him there ahead of schedule."  
  
"The voice on the phone that night... it was Bateman. That's what I heard; Bateman giving them your name."   
  
"The call that made you think I was involved with your kidnappers?"  
  
"There's still something I don't understand. If my captors were FSB and Vaughn... Bateman... was working for the Russians, weren't they all on the same side?”  
  
“We've just discovered Bateman was a triple agent, working not only for us and Mother Russia but for the Chinese.”  
  
“Does that mean he had gone rogue and that my captors were there to do damage control?”  
  
“It was damage control of some sort, yes.”  
  
There was only one question left to ask.  
  
"What will happen to him now?"   
  
No names were made; there was no doubt who she was referring to, and a sixth sense told her Harry knew she hadn't shared with him everything that had transpired during the time she was missing.

* * *

 

  
After kissing Harry and Ruth farewell and locking everything up, she prepared herself for bed. She turned the lights off, except the lamp on her night table; a futile effort to stop him from invading her dreams, almost as useless as pushing herself to the limit during physical therapy. God only knew how long it'd take her to stop dreaming about him; if that day ever arrived.   
  
Despite her troubled sleep, her shoulder kept improving at a gradual and steady pace. It wouldn't be long before she was fit for active service again, a fact which added an extra worry to keep her awake at night. Every day that went by she was less and less sure she wanted to keep doing what she used to before the whole affair with Tiresias.

* * *

 

  
_DECEMBER 2009_

  
It was freezing cold and raining heavily when Annabelle walked out of the lift at Thames House after finishing with all the paperwork for Human Resources. Getting a taxi in such dreadful weather would be a labour of patience.   
  
"I heard you´re coming back to work. How's your arm?"  
  
"Ros!" she exclaimed, taken by surprise. “As good as new. Thanks. I've just been with the lads at HR. I'm seriously considering going back to my old tenure at university.”  
  
"You're a fine officer. Have you thought it through? That bastard deserved everything he had coming and there's nothing you should blame yourself for. You did what was expected of you. Nothing more, nothing less."  
  
"Harry asked me the same question. It isn't a rushed decision, and what happened with Bateman's not the main reason behind it. It's a resolution that's been brewing for quite some time."  
  
Ros studied her with her usual poker face and then nodded her understanding.  
  
"Let me give you a lift home. You'll grow old waiting for a taxi in this bloody rain.“  
  
During the ride they talked about Russia and discovered they liked similar authors and composers.  
  
Annabelle wondered if her confessing to Ros she was going to give up the service had somehow altered the dynamics of their relationship. She'd always looked up to the older woman and had a good work relationship with her, but tonight's conversation had been the longest and most relaxed they'd ever had. Perhaps she could pluck up the courage to ask the blonde the question that had been on her mind since they got in the car without fearing one of Myers' typically acerbic answers.   
  
"So here we are," said Ros, parking her car in front of the Georgian building.  
  
"Thanks for the lift. I was virtually resigned to spending the night on The Grid."  
  
"Take care, Annabelle," she replied, brushing off the thanks as if she were suddenly uncomfortable with her chivalrous lapse, a slip that revealed she was human underneath her tough exterior.  
  
"What happened with the man you and CO19 took away that morning?" blurted out the younger woman, removing her hand from the door handle.  
  
The windscreen wipers moved from one side to the other in an almost hypnotic rhythm punctuating the pregnant silence inside the car.  
  
As the seconds passed by and no reply came, Annabelle thought she'd probably regret having asked.  
  
"What the hell," said Ros softly. "I'm not Sir Harry Pearce. I don't owe anyone anything in this. Look, we didn't arrest anybody that day. Bateman was taken to the coroner's. Tom was rushed to the hospital for surgery. But there were no arrests."   
  
"I don't understand. There were three men in that room when I was shot. Are you trying to say the third one escaped? How could he with CO19 surrounding the place?"   
  
"I'm not saying anything other than we didn't make any arrests," Ros repeated as if she were speaking to a child.  
  
"Harry told me he was in custody. That they were going to deport him to Russia. Was that a lie?”  
  
"Talk to Harry." The blond agent looked out the misty windshield into the cold night and the torrential rain. "I didn't even visit you in the hospital because, after playing hooky with Harry to rescue you, the MI5 shrink insisted I needed therapy to deal with my issues around my forced holidays in Russia. I have my own ghosts.Tell our boss it's time he let go of his. Maybe he'll listen to you."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.
> 
> A/N: this fic is my own version of Series 7.

_THAMES HOUSE- 10 a.m. DECEMBER 18th_  
  
Harry was on the phone with GCHQ when Annabelle knocked on his door the following morning, but he motioned her  in.  
  
Sitting across from him, she struggled to keep her flared temper in check so, instead of slamming the door shut and demanding immediate answers, she waited patiently for him to finish the conversation.  
  
“So...” he began, hanging up and greeting her with a smile,”you're leaving us. I see you've cleared your desk.”  
  
“Yes, I've just collected my salary and said goodbye to the team.”  
  
“I've never been good at farewells...”  
  
“You could have fooled me. You're so good at pretending. I had a very interesting chat with Ros Myers last night. You lied to me, Harry. You've lied to me from the very first moment and I want to know why. You told me the man you arrested the day I shot Bateman had been deported and sent back to Russia. And yet Ros assured me no arrests were made.”      
  
“Did you want him arrested, Annabelle?” asked Harry softly.  
  
His response was disconcerting to say the least. Could it be he already knew what had happened between her and her captor? She'd experienced such guilt for loving her mystery man, for betraying everyone in Section D, including herself. Above all, she felt like the worst of traitors for having done the right thing in the end since that had entailed betraying the man she loved. And yet she'd been so furious when she learnt there had been no arrest.  
  
“I just wanted what was right,” she shouted. “I did my duty as an agent of this service only to find out from Ros...”  
  
“Rosalynd should have known better,” he interrupted.  
  
“What does that mean? That she shouldn't have told me the truth? Because she did, didn't she? Nobody was arrested that day. Why? What possible explanation could there be for simply letting him go? It doesn't make sense. Did he make a deal, is that it?“  
  
“I'm sorry, Annabelle, but I can't tell you that. Sometimes we can't choose what to do.”  
  
“I slept with him, Harry,” she confessed after a short silence.”And I wasn't coerced. Nor did I use my body as a tool to try to earn my freedom. I loved him the way I've never loved any man before. But because I'm an MI5 officer and made an oath when I joined, I handed him over to you. I betrayed him and have had to live with that decision since then. It's the hardest sacrifice I've ever had to make and yet I was willing to live with the guilt because, despite my personal feelings, I knew I'd done the right thing. I would have kept on believing it if I hadn't met Ros last night,” she told the Head of Section D, trying to make him see the quandary she was in. “Isn't there anything you can tell me to make me understand?” she begged him.  
  
“I'm sorry,” he answered with a slow negative movement of his balding head.  
  
Grabbing her handbag and the box with her personal items, she got up and walked towards the office door without a word of goodbye.  
  
“Annabelle,” he said softly.  
  
She turned around at the doorway in time to see him lock a desk drawer.  
  
“I believe you should have this,” he added, handing  her a black velvet case.  
  
She looked at the case with a puzzled frown and then opened it slowly to reveal a gold chain with a crucifix. The crucifix she'd taken off that night at the castle.  
  
“Is he really dead?" she asked softly. “He told me the man at the castle didn't die that night."  
  
“He lied to you, Annabelle.”  
  
“Did he? How can I be sure now who's actually telling the truth?”  
  
“The asset was who you thought he was. He wasn't FSB.Take the crucifix, Annabelle.”  
  
“I don't want it,” she croaked.  
  
“I thought you might want to have it.”  
  
“I don't need it to remember. I wish I could forget everything. I was lied to and used by someone I trusted. I won't ever forgive you for what you did, Harry,” she finished, turning around and leaving the office  
  
“Annabelle...”

* * *

  
  
 _DECEMBER 22nd_  
  
Annabelle was lying on her sofa, nursing a glass of white wine and surfing the channels on her TV, when the doorbell rang.  
  
It'd been so long since anyone graced her doorstep that she'd forgotten she even had a bell. Not many knew where she lived and being a spook left very little time for socialising.  
  
Sliding the security chain in place, she unlocked the door to find none other than Sir Harry Pearce standing in the corridor.  
  
“Jesus, Annabelle, didn't you learn anything while working under my command?! You should have at least asked who I was before opening the door.”  
  
“If I had been smarter, I would have saved myself the trouble of slamming it in your face,” she spat, trying to close it only to find Harry had already put his foot in place.  
  
“You're coming with me,” he stated gravely.”I'm afraid you have no choice, Annabelle. Your presence's been requested at the Home Secretary's reception tonight.”  
  
“Why don't you take Ruth with you? I'm sure she'd be a more amenable companion.”  
  
“She's waiting for us in the car. You just need to put on your best smile, receive their thanks and I'll drive you back. It's me you're angry at not them. Don't do it for me. Do it because it's the right thing.”  
  
“I always do what's right, don't I?” she replied bitterly, undoing the chain so that he could step in.

* * *

  
  
 _THE HOME SECRETARY'S RESIDENCE_  
  
The reception was everything Annabelle had expected it to be and loathed. And not even Ruth's efforts at distracting her with erudite conversation were enough to curve her desire to flee. After all, despite the 'grateful government' speech Harry had used to convince her to attend, everybody seemed to be happy to ignore her.  
  
“Come with me. The Home Secretary wants to see you in private,” whispered Harry a couple of hours after their arrival.

  
_At last.Let's put an end to this so I can go back and continue with my packing._

* * *

  
  
He would have recognised that chestnut hair and those delicately feminine curves anywhere. She looked lovely in that understated long black dress.  
  
She seemed to have made a full recovery; at least, there were no  physical lingering effects that he was able to notice.

  
Hiding in the shadows of an alcove, he smiled wanly and observed her being escorted by Harry to the Home Secretary's study. A woman other than Annabelle would have stayed away and done her best to forget the ordeal she'd been through; her courage was an admirable quality indeed.  
  
Six months had elapsed since the shooting and not a day had gone by when he didn't wish things were different. And yet, he told himself, it was better this way. She deserved better than being condemned to a world of deceit and darkness such as his.

* * *

  
  
Harry escorted her into the study, where she met the Home Secretary face-to.face for the first time. He was a tall, slim and handsome blue-grey-eyed man in his mid-fifties with an innate capacity to put people at ease and make them feel as if their opinion really mattered.  
  
As soon as the protocolar introductions and the exchanges _de rigeur_ between both of Her Majesty's senior officials had been dealt with, the Head of Section D left the room.  
  
“Please, do sit down, Miss Reed,” said the Home Secretary, showing her to a sofa placed near the fireplace.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“It's Her Majesty's government the one that should thank you for your role in helping break up the Russian operation to cripple our Security Service.”  
  
“I'm afraid I can't take full credit for that. I only played a small part; the whole section worked really hard to see this to the end.”  
  
“Sir Harry told me you'd play down your role. Still, on behalf of this office and the kingdom you serve, I want you to know how much we appreciate your efforts.Many have fought and continue  to  fight for the good of the Realm and die unsung heroes. My own brother gave his life for Queen and Country and no post-mortem medal or hommage will ever assuage a parent's grief  Have you got any brothers or sisters, Ms. Reed?"  
  
"No," Annabelle said, "but I know something about loss. My father was an army officer. He was also killed serving his country... My mother and I had a hard time trying to come to terms with the fact that he'd never come back to us."  
  
"Your job and Sir Harry's an ungrateful one, Miss Reed. I had only one brother... half-brother, actually. He was the serious one- it was always a matter of duty and responsibility for him," he said softly, shaking his head. “He was the youngest, the light of my mother's eyes. Her heart was broken when he didn't come back home... You see, he had never told her what he did for a living, and she died believing he had stayed away because he hadn't forgiven her for not warming up to his Russian wife. ”  
  
The Home Secretary's voice, which had a distinct northern accent, slowly faded.  
  
Annabelle  wondered where  this  was  all  leading. She couldn't see what his family history had to do with her being there.  
  
"I'm afraid, sir, I don't understand exactly what..."  
  
"Sometimes it's hard to keep one's emotional distance and this operation was too close to home to stay immune. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable..."  he paused, and then raised his long lash eyes to meet hers again."I was eager to meet you, Ms. Reed, and I'm glad I finally have. You're a credit to the Service. And now, Sir Harry tells me,  you're  thinking  about  going back to your old tenure."  
  
"Yes, I think it'll be for the best."  
  
"What can I say to make you reconsider?"  he asked, smiling at her again.  
  
"My mind's already made up..."    
  
“And you aren't easily swayed.”  
  
“It's been an honour and a privilege to serve my country and, if the need arises, I'll always be available to aid from my university chair as I used to before joining MI-5," she  replied with a soft smile.  
  
“You can count on that.”

* * *

  
  
As Harry was helping Ruth and her with their coats  in  the foyer, she caught sight of the Home Secretary standing in the doorway of the study; his deep blue-grey eyes were trained on her, which explained the eerie feeling she'd had of being observed.  
  
On the way home, Annabelle went over the meeting and tried to decide what it was that she hadn't picked up on for she knew, instinctively, that there had been a lot going on that she'd missed in that study.  
  
It wasn't until after Harry had left her at her doorstep and driven away, that it dawned on her. The  man  at the castle,  the asset,  had  been  the Home Secretary's brother.  
  
She had always known the original contact to make the exchange possible had been achieved through diplomatic channels. The Home Secretary had told her that his brother had died for Queen & Country, but wishing to  get  past  his  gratitude,  she  had failed to decode what that meant. She was the one who'd been with his brother at the last; that was why he'd been eager to meet her.  
  
She felt the moral duty to pay a second visit to the Home Secretary to let him know how much she'd admired and respected his brother's courage and endurance. She doubted it'd help lessen his grief, but it'd provide her with some sense of closure.  
  
Since she wanted to leave London for good the following afternoon, she'd have to tell the Home Secretary tonight what his brother's sacrifice had meant to her. She'd just call a taxi and use the invitation Harry had given her to go through security before everyone vacated the premises.  
  
When she got to the Home Secretary's residence, she was lucky enough to cross paths with the head of security, who had checked their IDs for the reception. The fact that the middle-aged officer had worked as Sir Harry's personal bodyguard in the past helped expedite her admission with the promise that she'd just have a quick word with the Home Secretary and then leave.  
  
Annabelle found herself in front of the study door wondering whether she should announce her presence with a knock. The door being ajar, she was able to make out the Home Secretary despite the dimmed lights, thanks to the logs burning in the fireplace. He was standing close to the fire still in his evening clothes, minus the tie, and nursing a drink in his hand.  
  
"Home Secretary," she said, opening the door widely.  
  
It was at that moment, when she finally stepped into the study, that she realised he wasn't the only occupant. There was another man, and his piercing blue-grey eyes were focused on her face just as they had the morning she'd stood between him and a bullet, creating a bubble where only the two of them existed.  
  
"Hello, Annabelle," he said softly from the sofa.  
  
Her heart stopped and then galloped in her chest. She had thought she'd never see him again.     
  
Nothing had changed. He still had the power to seduce her, to make her yearn for the touch of his hands and the caress of his skin against hers in the dark. Not a night went by when she didn't wake up and still feel the sweet, hot and tender ghost of his lips.  
  
"What are you doing here?"  she asked.  
  
"And you, _Golubushka_?"  
  
His velvety voice sounded as mesmerising as ever, and she responded to it as a sailor to the call of a siren in the middle of the ocean; she advanced further into the room and stopped in front of him, looking down into the bottomless pools of his striking blue-grey eyes.  
  
The scarring which used to mar the left side of his face had been surgically repaired. He was one of the most masculine and handsome men she'd ever met; she'd thought so even in the dark and discovering his disfigurement hadn't made him less beautiful in her eyes.  
  
It was hard to string a rational thought when all she felt like doing was to examine his features and commit every detail to memory before facing the painful truth.  
  
"How foolish of me. When the Home Secretary told me earlier about his brother, I thought he was speaking about our asset- the man who died at the castle. But it was you, wasn't it? I returned to tell the Home Secretary how much I admired his brother and catch him entertaining the FSB. "  
  
"Lucas," the Home Secretary intervened, meeting the piercing eyes of the younger man.  
  
"That's why Harry couldn't arrest you. You had the Home Secretary's protection. Total immunity to get away with anything, right?" she continued, her eyes welling up with tears.  
  
"Annabelle," he whispered.  
  
"You told me to guard my soul. I should have listened," she said, struggling to keep her tears at bay. You had your own flesh and blood sell his soul for you, not a hero who gave his life for Queen  & Country but a Russian spy."  
  
“Miss Reed,” the Home Secretary cut in.  
  
“Don't worry. Whatever's said in this room stays here. I've been long enough in this system not to know how things work.”  
  
“ _Golubushka_...”  
  
“Please, don't,” she shook her head.”I should hate you but even now, _Lucas_ , knowing what I know..." she rasped. “I wish I hadn't come back tonight. To continue living a lie would have been infinitely more merciful.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.

_ANNABELLE'S FLAT- LONDON- EARLY MORNING_

 

Annabelle got up the next morning to find London covered in snow and with no prospect of seeing the weather improve any time soon.

Stubbornly, refusing to accept the incontestable evidence in front of her eyes, she contacted Heathrow only to have her slim hopes crushed. All London airports had shut down because of the storm and no planes were either landing or taking off; a situation that would continue for at least another forty-eight hours, according to the weather forecast.

As unsavoury as the idea of being stuck in the capital was, hitting the motorway home in such a heavy snowstorm with nil visibility would be suicide, and she still loved life too much to risk it on a rushed decision prompted by heartache.

Sitting down on her comfortable sofa with a glass of white wine and a tray of crackers, cheese, seasoned olives and cured ham she'd bought at her favourite _charcuterie_ , she grabbed the remote and began surfing the channels in search of something to distract her.

In two days' time she'd be on her way back home, away from London. As devastated as she felt, she told herself that this would pass. She needed to put a long distance between herself and these last painful months; she needed a refuge where to lick her wounds and find her emotional equilibrium.

The phone rang all of a sudden, taking her out of her reveries. She fumbled with the remote to mute the old Christmas classic which had been playing largely unwatched and picked up the receiver. The caller was probably Jo, inviting her over to have a drink.

“Hello?” she said, trying to keep her voice light.

“Annabelle?”

It wasn't her former colleague from The Grid but a deep chocolatey voice that oozed masculinity and one whose every nuance she'd have recognised anywhere. Not even the metallic distortion of the phone had managed to disguise the identity of its owner or diminish the allure of its enveloping nature.

“Annabelle,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she whispered shakily, fleetingly trying to put a finger on why hearing his voice over phone had made something flutter at the back of her mind.

“I wasn't sure you'd still be around.”

“All flights in and out of town have been cancelled because of the snowstorm.”

“This is one of those rare times when I'm actually grateful for London's weather... I'd like to see you, Annabelle. There are things I need to say. I...”

“I don't think there's anything left to say between us,” she cut him off. “And even if I were to hear you out, I don't see how that would change anything. I'd never be able to believe a word that came out of your mouth. You did nothing but lie to me. Every time you touched me, every whispered word in the dark was a lie. Your body, your voice and hands said you cared about me when all the time you were lying.I should have known better... I was a fool. After all, wasn't you who told me that everyone lies?”

Annabelle hated how vulnerable he made her feel and how little control she had over her emotions when her rational side told her she should let matters rest if she hoped to retain her dignity as intact as the current circumstances allowed.

“This might sound hard to believe... but I never meant to hurt you.”

“What do you want from me, Lucas? Absolution for taking me to your bed? If that's what this is about, then you've got it. It takes two to tango as the saying goes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish packing.”

“Wait. Please...don't hang up yet. Don't you want to know about your asset?”

“I thought we'd been over this. He died a painful death. Why can't you just let him rest in peace?”

“Because... You're owed the truth. _I_ owe you the truth about what really happened that night at the Hall. I'll be waiting for you at the guesthouse at the back of Tom's property. “

“Lucas, I don't … “ she started to answer, but he was no longer listening.

Her hands trembled with the receiver still in their grip as her body reacted to the thought of being in the same room with him again.

 

* * *

 

_LONDON OUTSKIRTS- LATER THAT EVENING_

As promised, Lucas was expecting her. Not only did the gate open as soon as she buzzed, the front door was already unlocked. She stepped inside and took a minute to admire the workmanship of the wooden interior before noticing a door ajar.

The guesthouse was silent except for the crackling of the logs in the fireplace, whose light she saw reflected on the polished laminate wood floor; a beckoning beam leading her to the man she was finding so hard to forget.

She walked towards the room and stopped in front of the door, wondering if she should knock or simply enter unannounced. The decision was taken off her hands when his voice invited her to step inside.

Lucas was sitting in a wing armchair, wearing a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a navy blue shirt with a few buttons undone. A bottle of Smirnoff and an empty tumbler stood on the floor next to his seat while his long fingers held a half-full glass of vodka. Annabelle wondered how many of those he had poured himself that evening; judging by how much liquid was missing from the bottle, quite a few.

“I'm glad you came,” he said with no hint of a slur in his voice as he raised his piercing blue-grey eyes to meet hers.

She cursed her treacherous body for reacting so viscerally to him. It wasn't fair. Why did he have to look so devastatingly handsome and composed while she was tongue-tied and burning, drowning in the bottomless pool of his eyes?

Annabelle wondered what it was about this man that broke every mould. Casual clothes weren't supposed to look that way; they were supposed to make him less dreamy not to bring out the colour of his eyes and do odd things to her stomach.

All of a sudden she wished she had taken more care with her appearance, retouched her make-up... changed out of her comfy clothes. She hadn't wanted to dress up, give him the idea she'd really taken pains to look attractive for him, but now she felt she was at a disadvantage and in dire need of an armour to prevent him from seeing too much.

“You look adorable,” he told her huskily as his gaze caressed her and she struggled to fight off the memories his voice and subtle perfume evoked, bittersweet recollections of the ways he'd touched her when they loved each other in the dark. “Please, take a seat, _Golubushka_.”

“Would you mind not calling me that again?”

“Sit down, Annabelle,” he repeated after a brief pause during which his impossibly long eyelashes had lowered to hide the pools of blue, where she imagined to have seen reflected a fleeting stab of pain. “Please,” he added softly.

She walked further into the room and stopped a few paces away from him to take a seat in the armchair across from his.

Lucas' attention was suddenly caught by a movement behind Annabelle, which caused the linguist to turn her head and feel a shiver run up her spine.

“Aren't you going to introduce us, Lucas?” asked the small woman in the doorway, holding a gun in her hand. “Miss Reed, right?” she continued softly. “I'm Elizaveta Starkova. I used to be the handler of a late colleague of yours, John Bateman.”

The petite brunette had a very marked Russian accent that Annabelle experienced like a knife plunged into her already bleeding heart.

“This is what you lured me here for?” she asked Lucas, her eyes filling up with unshed tears. “You're handing me over to the bloody FSB?”

“No, _Golubushka_ ,” he denied in a quivery voice without moving from his seat. “Vyeta,” he said raspily, now glancing at the foreign woman.

“Bateman was really good and the fact that he died and you survived convinced me you'd been the key all along, Miss Reed,” Vyeta butted in. “I knew I only had to be patient and you'd lead me straight to where I wanted to go.”

 _You'd lead me straight to where I wanted to go._ The words rang in Annabelle's ears and the veil suddenly lifted, making all the pieces fall into place. The woman believed she'd lead her to the asset. _Lucas_. Oh, God, _Lucas_! What a fool she'd been, bringing the FSB to the asset's doorstep!

Everything had come full circle. Annabelle remembered that fateful night and the dying man she'd never forgotten. Now she understood why she'd trusted Lucas implicitly from the beginning, why she'd believed him when he'd denied being responsible for the deaths of her three colleagues. His real identity explained Harry's decision not to arrest him. Lucas was the mystery man from the castle.

Annabelle's heart felt lighter despite the immediate threat of having a gun aimed at her. She fought not to look at Lucas and focused on Vyeta's face instead. Her mind was working at full speed; there had to be a way to protect him. She had to convince Bateman's handler that Lucas had no connection whatsoever with the man Vyeta was looking for.

“And where do you want to go?” she asked the Russian woman in a steady voice.

“You know very well what- or should I say _who?-_ I'm looking for, Miss Reed. The man who was blessed with a prodigious photographic memory, a gift he used against my people. The man who gave Harry Pearce the information about Tiresias.”

“Lucas and you are looking for the same person then... I'm afraid I can't help you with that. Lucas can tell you I'm not lying. He had some pretty nasty drugs used on me to no effect. I couldn't give him any names because I honestly don't have that information. So, you see, you're wasting your time.”

“You're lying. I'm no longer the naïve girl I used to be. I still can't believe how gullible I was, how easily I deceived myself because the role was completely out of character for the sweet and shy man I'd married,” said Elizaveta shifting her gaze to focus on Lucas.”But all the clues were right in front of my eyes- the long and frequent trips, the cuts and bruises... I suppose I was too much in love to ever put it together. Whatever made you decide to become a spook?”

 _The man I'd married._ The words echoed in Annabelle's ears.

“When I finished my gap year in Dakar, where I met Bateman working at the casino, I returned to the UK. I had no job, no prospects, so I sought out my university thesis tutor, hoping he might help me get a teaching position. He told me I'd be wasting my special gifts and arranged a meeting with an old army comrade of his, Harry Pearce. Tom Quinn had also been invited. We had dinner at Harry's club; that evening we were recruited by Section D. I was MI-5 when we married, MI-5 all those years in prison and I'm MI-5 now,” he explained to his former wife.”I'm sorry about your brother, Vyeta...”

“He was the only family I had left. And he's dead because of you.”

“He knew what he was doing. Just as I did when I took that flight to Moscow eight years ago. I knew I might not come back. but I'd made a choice when I joined MI-5.”

"Why didn't you tell me what you were?" Vyeta asked.

“I was a British agent married to a Russian national whose brother was an FSB agent. What would you have done in my shoes?”

“I almost lost everything because of you,” she replied with glassy eyes.”Nicolai is only three. I never thought I'd have a child... and then you came back and I thought the nightmare was over. Kachimov had promised to help you if I did some work for the FSB, so when you were released I presented my resignation, but he wouldn't accept it. He refused to grant me my freedom as soon as they realised you'd given Tiresias to Harry. They... almost killed my baby, an innocent child, just to get to you, ” she added in a strangled voice, tightening her shaky hold on the gun.

“I'm sorry, Vyeta. I had asked Harry to protect you and your family, but you'd vanished without a trace by then.”

“Sorry's not enough. It took me months, but when the Embassy told me they'd intercepted a call to Miss Reed's phone where a male voice promised to tell her all about the man in the castle, I knew my patience would finally pay.”

Annabelle saw the petite woman aim her gun at her ex-husband once again and wished she hadn't given her weapon back when her resignation was processed.

“You won't do it,” Lucas stated calmy, inexplicably making no move to either protect himself or subdue Vyeta with his superior height and bulk.

Annabelle measured the distance to the door, wondering if she could make a run for it to stop the unstable woman. There had to be something she could do. And yet, she knew that if she did the wrong thing , Vyeta might end up wounding or killing Lucas.

“You aren't a murderer, Vyeta,” he continued impassively.

His former wife's judgement wasn't so clouded not to realise the linguist was the key to making Lucas pay.

“I might not be able to kill you, Lucas. But her? She means nothing to me, but something tells me it's not the same for you.”

Annabelle prayed for some kind of opportunity to get closer and subdue the aggressor before things got out of hand. She simply couldn't resign herself to the thought that God might be so cruel as to let the man she loved die now that she finally knew who and what he was.

Her prayer was eventually answered the moment Elizaveta advanced further into the room and stopped in front of the fireplace. Although the Russian lady had worked for the FSB, it was evident she lacked experience handling guns since her move had brought her too close to be able to adequately cover them both.

The gun was now aimed at Annabelle, who represented the greatest threat as she was standing, and shifted slightly to focus on her shoulder. The former MI-5 agent was the greatest leverage to use against Lucas, and Starkova seemed determined to exploit this for the trajectory needed only a little adjustment to target Annabelle's heart and produce permanent damage.

The ball was in Lucas' court now because, unlike Annabelle, he wasn't in the line of fire. He would have to make the move as soon as the opportunity presented itself; she only had to be patient and ready to make hers.

When the moment arrived Annabelle prayed her face didn't betray the gripping emotion that seized her on seeing him stretch out an arm to fetch the walking stick he'd kept hidden from her. She had known of the asset's extensive injuries and now she understood Lucas' determination to keep his identity a secret; he hadn't wanted her or anyone to feel pity for him.

Everything happened so fast then that it was hard to believe the man who disarmed Vyeta with a masterful strike of his cane on her wrist was the same person who had lain agonising in the castle, so swift and precise were his moves.

The gun discharged and a bullet embedded itself in the wall behind Annabelle before the weapon fell onto the carpet out of Vyeta's reach. Fuelled by adrenaline, the linguist launched herself at the petite woman. They went down together, landing hard on the polished laminate wood floor just as the locked door was crashed open.

Making sure Elizaveta was no longer a threat, she glanced towards the fireplace and saw Lucas, sitting on the floor, the gun he'd knocked out of his ex-wife's hand trained on the doorway until a look of recognition flashed in his eyes.

Seeing it was Tom Quinn and not another FSB agent coming to finish off what Vyeta had failed to accomplish, Annabelle let out the breath she'd been holding and then crawled towards Lucas.

“I'm all right. Not even a scratch,” he assured her. “And you?” he added, cupping her cheek and holding her gaze for a long moment.

Now that the adrenaline rush was dwindling, she found she couldn't stop shaking nor was she able to clear the big lump in her throat to reply with anything other than a simple nod.

“You'd better call Harry, then.”

“Let me help you first,” she told him quietly, darting a quick glance around the room for his walking stick, which seemed to have vanished as if by magic.

“Call Harry, Annabelle. You can use the phone on the desk. It's clean.”

“I... ,” she started hesitantly.

“I appreciate your offer, _Golubushka_ , but I can take it from here,” he interrupted her in a tone of voice devoid of emotion she recognised as a strategy to deflect any overture of assistance.

* * *

 

CO19 arrived at the scene with Sir Harry Pearce in tow. Annabelle saw him enter the library in an impeccable dinner jacket and overcoat and make a quick survey of the room.

“Harry,” his former Chief of Section greeted him in the doorway.

“Tom,” nodded Pearce, glancing across the room at the man who had given eight years of his youth and almost his life to serve and protect Queen and Country.

Lucas was still sitting on the floor with his eyes closed and his body propped against the armchair he'd been sitting in before the confrontation. Annabelle itched to be close to him, but she wasn't sure she was equipped to deal with that particular minefield, especially when he appeared to be determined to show he needed no _crutches_ of any sort to stand on his own and face whatever demons were still haunting him.

Harry seemed not to have her qualms or, if he did, he was too guilt-ridden over his failure to help Lucas in the past to dodge the bullet now. He walked over to his younger protegé and squatting down with his back to Annabelle, he spoke to Lucas in a voice too soft for anyone else to hear.

Meanwhile, the linguist turned around to see CO19 handcuff Vyeta and take her away in custody.

“Come on,” said Tom softly, placing a comforting hand on Annabelle's shoulder. “Let's get some fresh air.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole. This fic is my own version of Series 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.
> 
> A/N: Sorry for the long delay in posting this update. RL got in the way and the nature of the chapter demanded some careful planning and editing until I got the result I wanted. I hope you'll enjoy it.
> 
> Only the epilogue left to wrap it up, ladies.I'm going to try hard not to keep you hanging for too long.

  
Standing sheltered by the eaves, Annabelle observed the snow fall steadily and cover the trimmed hedge that separated the guesthouse from the grounds which were occupied by the main property. She breathed in several lungfuls of the cold winter air and struggled to control the shivering that had seized her the moment the adrenaline rush began to wear off.  
  
Seeing her cross her arms in an attempt to fight off the chill, Tom took a step forward and, taking off his coat, placed the oversize garment over her shoulders.  
  
“Thanks,” she said quietly, getting a shy smile and a gentle squeeze of her arm as a reply.  
  
“He'll be fine, Annabelle. He only needs time," he added, noticing her misty eyes. “Listen, I need a word with CO19. Do you mind if...?”  
  
“It's OK, Tom. Go ahead,” she told him with a reassuring smile.  
  
No sooner had Lucas' best friend joined the leader of the special unit than Sir Harry materialised at her side.  
  
“He was an outstanding officer,” he stated, looking at Quinn conversing and laughing with an old acquaintance from CO19.  
  
“What happened? You could cut the atmosphere with a knife when you two saw each other inside.”  
  
“He shot me five years ago.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“A long story and one I promise to enlighten you about sometime. Now I suppose you have a lot of questions about another tall and handsome agent.”  
  
“How much of what you told me when you and Ruth dined with me was true?”  
  
"The man I sent to Russia to uncover the network was Lucas North, of course. He was my best officer, my Chief of Section, and surrogate son. That much was true,” he confessed. “Vyeta was Bateman's new handler," Harry went on. "She was recruited after her brother was shot by one of our operatives when we were hunting down members of Tiresias in our secret services. Apparently, before dying, he told her Lucas had sold him out.Then, to trap our traitor, we discreetly put the word out that another player would pay big for the name of the man who'd revealed the secrets of Tiresias. Bateman took our bait."  
  
“What a fool I've been! Last night, it was you on the phone, wasn't it? You called to make arrangements to catch Bateman when he turned up today. You've been working with Lucas all along. They were expecting you.”  
  
“Yes, but if you hadn't shot Bateman, all would have been for nothing.”  
  
“And you knew it was Elizaveta who was after Lucas. You should have told me, Harry.”  
  
“We didn't know who Bateman's handler was, but we needed them to come forward. It was the only way we could discover how much we'd been compromised and what sensitive information Bateman had passed onto the Russians. It wasn't a question of lack of trust, Annabelle. I kept you under protective surveillance for a long time, but when months went by and there was no hint anybody knew your name or Lucas' whereabouts...”  
  
"And my abduction? Whose idea was it? Yours?"  
  
"No," Harry admitted."As it was to be expected, Lucas didn't trust any of us. His allegiance was questioned by the service because of his eight years' imprisonment in Russia and he, in turn, wasn't ready to play by the rules of MI5 when we admitted there was a traitor in our ranks."  
  
"He thought I was the traitor, didn't he?"  
  
"I don't think that's what happened. I believe that when he learnt about the deaths in Section D, he was afraid you'd be next. You'd been closest to the asset and he was aware of what would happen if the FSB discovered that fact. And... I also think he just wanted to see you again. The deal we made gave him the perfect excuse."  
  
"He accused me of selling out our asset."  
  
"The first thing Bateman did was try to convince Lucas you were the traitor. He provided the photoshopped picture and a record of a supposed payoff as proof."  
  
"Why did you keep me in the dark once it was all over? Why didn't you tell me who he was?"  
  
"It was the only thing he asked of me, Annabelle, in return for all he'd done. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant.....The Service owed him so much, and I suppose my own sense of guilt over my inability to get him back sooner left me no choice but to grant him his wish."  
  
"Did you ..." she hesitated."Before I confessed, did you know what had happened between us? Did he tell you?"  
  
"It wasn't hard to figure out how he felt when you were shot. I thought he was going to kill me and Ros for letting you get hurt."  
  
"You could have given me some hint, Harry."  
  
"I tried to give you the crucifix. And I thought a linguist with a keen sense of hearing such as yours would recognise his voice.”  
  
His voice. Could it be her subconscious had known who it belonged to from the very first moment? Was that the reason she'd trusted him when common sense said she shouldn't?  
  
“I'm the least equipped to give advice on affairs of the heart, but you and Lucas are the closest thing to family I've got. I'd hate to see you both let happiness pass you by. I've been there, Annabelle. Don't make the same mistake.”  


 

* * *

  
  
Harry and CO19 had driven away when Annabelle decided it was high time she made her way back into the guesthouse and finish a conversation long overdue.  
  
Hesitantly she stood before the library door, which lay ajar, closed her eyes and took a deep breath in an attempt to slow down her palpitating heart. He was just a few feet away, but crossing that distance felt like taking tentative steps on the fragile surface of a frozen lake.  
  
Her rational mind told her to walk across the room and slap him; it was the least he deserved for making her believe she'd been nothing but a one-night stand. And yet her heart thawed on seeing him sitting again on the sofa, his body tense like a bowstring ready to snap; the weight of the world on his shoulders. He didn't need her anger; he was doing more than an adequate job berating himself without any extra help.  
  
“I thought you had left.”  
  
“Is that what you really want?”  
  
“ I told you what I wanted you to do.”  
  
“Yes, to go home. But I am home, Lucas. Don't you see? Everything's changed. You led me to think my feelings for you were a betrayal of who I am, and now I know there was nothing to feel ashamed of.”  
  
“Annabelle...”  
  
“You're a good man, an honourable man.”  
  
“I can't give you what you want, _Golubushka_.”  
  
Could it be she'd been wrong all along? Was her deep love for this wounded soul blinding her and making her see things that weren't really there? If Lucas kept on denying he had feelings for her and insisted on her leaving, was there anything she could do to make him change his mind?  
  
"Are you saying you don't care about me? That you never have... not that way.. and that you never will?"  
  
A pregnant silence ensued until his impossibly long eyelashes raised the veil that had prevented his deeply expressive blue-grey eyes from speaking the truth.  
  
Looking into those bottomless pools and reading the sea of need and despair written in them filled Annabelle with bittersweet hope and a suddenly overwhelming sense of inadequacy. Although she found relief in knowing her feelings were requited, she wondered if she could give him what he wanted of her. Could she live up to the image of the woman she saw reflected in his eyes?  
  
The wordless confession had left both of them feeling vulnerable, particularly Lucas, who seemed to have developed a sudden fascination with his own hands, so intent was his study of those long fingers which had played her like an instrument in the dark and that were now spread against his denim-covered thighs.  
  
“If that's how you feel, then I can't see any real impediment to...” she began, plucking up the courage to fight for this man and, yes, for them. She was scared witless but determined not to let the miracle of love pass them by, not after everything they'd been through to get where they were now.  
  
“You almost died here today, _Golubushka_ ,” he interrupted her softly. “And all because of me. Who's to say there won't be others coming after me in the future? I don't want you involved.”  
  
“It's too late for that. I've been involved since that first night, when I stepped into the dark and fell in love with a dying man whose face I thought I'd never get to see. So tell me, Lucas, why are you really trying to get rid of me?"  
  
“What do you want from me, Annabelle?”  
  
“You know what I want. Stop pushing me away.”  
  
“You don't know what you're asking for.”  
  
“Try me.”  
  
“You're one of the strongest people I know, _Golubushka_ , but you've got your whole life ahead of you. You deserve better.”  
  
“What's that supposed to mean?”  
  
“God, woman, you know what I mean! You deserve someone who's whole!”  
  
“Well, I've got news for you, Lucas. I don't want anyone but you. And if there are ghosts to fight and dragons to slay, I want to be by your side to face them together.”  
  
"Annabelle..." he interjected, swallowing hard, only to be hushed by Annabelle's fingers on his mouth.  
  
“I'm not a martyr and you'd be a fool to condemn yourself to being one out of a foolish sense of chivalry. I'm not a shrinking violet, Lucas. I think I've proven that already. So why don't you just stop being so bloody noble and kiss me, North?”  
  
“Have you always been this stubborn?” he asked in a raspy voice, looking down into her tender eyes.  
  
“The pot calling the kettle black.”  
  
“What am I going to do with you?” he shook his head.  
  
“You're going to have to get used to my stubbornness if you insist on denying I'm the one in the right,” she murmured with a mischievous smile.  
  
With unusually shaky fingers, he tucked a stray tendril of reddish brown hair behind her dainty ear.  
  
“ _колдунья_ , what kind of spell did you cast upon me?” he added huskily, slowly urging her up to meet his descending mouth.  


 

* * *

  
  
Lucas was sitting on the bed with his back to her, his fingers hovering hesitatingly over the lower buttons of his shirt, which was now half undone.  
  
Something was wrong; Annabelle knew it just by looking at him. He seemed to be in a world of his own, one he appeared to be struggling to come to grips with, judging by the rictus of grief and... shame... etched on his face. An overwhelming sense of dread seized her.  
  
Although a dozen scenarios crossed her mind, all of which ended up with Lucas sending her packing and her nursing a broken heart, none of them came close to what was haunting the man she loved.  
  
Stop it, Annabelle. You dare cry in front of him, and it's over. A soon as he sees your tears, he'll clam up and push you away; this time forever, she chided herself the moment she saw the hand which had caressed her with such a tender touch abuse the skin of his own right wrist rubbing it raw as if his ultimate goal were to draw blood.  
  
Dum Spiro Spero. _While I breathe, I hope_. The words in ink etched across his shoulders and peeking out from underneath the collar of his blue shirt clutched at her heart, and a fleeting image of a hand discreetly pulling down a cuff at the Home Secretary's residence made all the pieces suddenly fall into place.  
  
Common sense told her to grab her things, run away and protect her heart since the road in front of them would be a bumpy one. Still, the urge to hug him and help him mend was too overwhelming to fight it. Her heart had already made up its mind.  
  
Slowly she took off the bathrobe she'd donned after having a shower and, lying it on the armchair, climbed up onto the bed, trying her best to make her presence known in as subtle a way as she could manage.  
  
“ _любовь моя_ ,” she murmured, kneeling on the deep blue satin sheets and carefully wrapping her arms around his trembling body.  
  
“Anna,” he replied in a quivering voice.  
  
“Shhh...” she hushed him softly, pressing a gossamer kiss on his cheek while covering his hands with hers in an attempt to prevent him from rebuttoning his shirt.  
  
They stayed in silence, locked in a comforting embrace, until Lucas' heartbeat slowed down and the thin sheen of perspiration which had covered his brow faded away.  
  
Annabelle's eyelids fluttered open when the weight of his head, which had rested upon her shoulder, left her and a kiss from his warm lips brushed her right hand.  
  
Turning in the circle of her arms, he cupped her face gently between his long-fingered hands and traced her delicate features with loving and still slightly haunted eyes as if he wanted to commit her face to memory, afraid of the moment when she would be snatched away from his side.  
  
“You're breathtaking,” he murmured, finally lowering his mouth to hers.  
  
Her arms snaked around his neck and he tightened his hold on her body, moving his hands down her spine to bring her closer without relinquishing the sweet intoxicating nectar of her lips.  
  
Eventually, the long-drawn kiss came to a reluctant end, and he raised his head with a boyish smile, which made her heart flutter.  
  
“You look like the proverbial cat that got the cream, Mr North,” she chuckled, brushing away a few tendrils of jet black hair that lay on his forehead before tracing his strong nose with her index finger to draw a straight line, which came to a stop at the base of his throat.“No more hiding,” she added after a pregnant pause, urging him with her eyes to trust her with his heart.  
  
Lowering his gaze, he covered the hand she had placed on his chest, just where Blake's “Ancient of Days” had been etched by the crude tools he´d allowed to desecrate his body in order to survive another day in the hell he once thought would be his final resting place.  
  
Annabelle's heart skipped a beat, afraid she'd pushed too far too soon, and then soared when he threaded his fingers with hers and urged her to help him undo the bottom buttons of his shirt.  
  
Gnothi Seuton read the Delphic maxim tattooed on his lower abdomen. _Know thyself._  
  
The iconography on his pale skin spoke of someone who'd clung to faith and God even when Hope was at its lowest and Man appeared to have deserted him.  
  
“Methodist minister.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“You should have seen your face, _Golubushka_ ,” he smirked. “I wasn't talking about me, but my father.”  
  
“Good to know. Although a white collar might look sexy on you.”  
  
“You think so?”  
  
“Are you fishing for compliments, Mr North?” she asked in a husky voice. If playful banter was what was needed to put him at ease, she was more than happy to oblige.  
  
The man was unquestionably good at deflecting attention from himself and in the wink of an eye the tables were turned, making Annabelle the focus when his intense blue-grey eyes spotted the scar left by the bullet she'd taken to save his life- an ugly mar she always took pains to hide.  
  
Lowering his mouth, he pressed a kiss on the scarring and then brushed a few more kisses up the milky column of her throat. Her eyes closed when his warm lips retraced their trail and found the smooth ivory skin of her breasts crowned by pebbled peaks claiming for attention.  
  
How many nights she'd dreamt he'd touch her like this. And now he was, and she felt herself burn, tingle with anticipation as his hands explored the curves and indentations of her young body intent on making her ache for the moment when they would know the joy of becoming one in the light for the first time.  
  
She gasped at the pleasure he gave to her with his lips and musical fingers and felt her breathing deepen when her eyelids drifted open to find his smouldering gaze locked on her face.  
  
"I've missed you so much," he told her in a raspy voice.  
  
"Love me, please,"she whispered.  
  
“ _Ты очень н нужна мне_ ,“ he replied as she opened to welcome him like the petals of the fragrant rose whose perfume enveloped him every time he nuzzled her neck or buried his nose in her hair.  
  
His slow movements belied the passion and urgent need that burnt in his eyes but were unquestionable proof of his love, and Annabelle found herself suddenly overwhelmed by emotion, struggling to keep the tears from welling up.  
  
“Anna...” he moaned eventually, asking with his eyes for her permission to let himself go.  
  
“I love you, Lucas North,” she replied, reaching for his mouth and letting the fire, which he'd quietly stoked, consume them both in a bursting flame.  


 

* * *

  
  
"Annabelle,” he began, his lips lightly touching her brow as she lay against his chest, “there's so much..."  
  
"None of it matters, Lucas,” she hushed him, watching his impossibly long eyelashes lower and veil the mesmerizing blue of his eyes. “Nothing will make what I feel for you go away. I just want to be with you. I'm not asking you for anything in return."  
  
She knew that this was right, that what they had was inevitable. She only had to convince him that all the ghosts and dragons which he imagined might interfere could be crippled or overcome with her at his side.  
  
  
 **TBC**  
  
 _колдунья_ (Sorceress)  
 _любовь моя_ (My love)  
 _Ты очень н нужна мне_ (I need you so much.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A lot might be said about Lucas' tattoos for they certainly are a fascinating topic. Some of you might argue that they define him- I agree with that- and others might go so far as to say he's proud of them because they're testament to his survival. Although it's true that they're a map of his physical & psychological journey as a prisoner, you've got to remember this isn't the Lucas we met in Series 8 or 9, who seems to have grown into his tattoos.
> 
> I couldn't help but remember two scenes from Series 7- the bathroom scene with Harry at Thames House and the kitchen scene with Vyeta. Neither of them, in my opinion, showed a man proud of the ink etching his skin. Richard's body language was very telling in both scenes. He was clearly guilt-tripping his mentor when he turned around, opened his arms and had Harry look at the physical evidence of the torment he'd gone through. Still, the best proof of how tainted and embarrassed he actually felt can be found in the uncomfortable scene at Vyeta's kitchen when he basically shrinks and hides his skin in front of the woman he still loves. The opening of the bedroom scene in this fic owes a lot to that kitchen scene for it's my belief he would have probably reacted the same way on the show if it had been Vyeta in the bedroom with him.
> 
> Here are a couple of clips to illustrate what I mean. By the way, you'll have to fast-forward:
> 
> Series 7 Episode 1 New Allegiances 25:00 Lucas & Harry bathroom scene  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=stWD2PvKJyc&list=PL3h-rrt-LRFeGLCprtnli85ScT_XUaw44
> 
> Series 7 Episode 2 Split Loyalties 52:46 Lucas & Vyeta kitchen scene  
> www.popscreen.com/v/8mlJA/Spooks-S07E02-Split-Loyalties-sa-prevodom


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole. This fic is my own version of Series 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the final instalment of Lucas and Annabelle's story- God willing, just the beginning for them. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around till the very end and showing your support with those kudos.

 

Weeks drifted by and a new year arrived. The persistent thick blanket of snow that used to cover the lawn and the trees visible from the master bedroom was now gone, giving way to the brighter colours of springtime and then to summer and its longer days. The desolation and loneliness of winter was swept away by Annabelle and Lucas' rediscovery of each other and the strengthening of the invisible bond that had miraculously brought them together one fateful night.

Lying naked on the tousled sheets, Annabelle pressed her cheek against the pillow and met his tender gaze with a languid smile. He looked relaxed and younger, almost boyish. And she basked in the warmth of his eyes, feeling her heart overflow with love as his beautiful long-fingered hand moved lazily down her back drawing patterns on her skin she soon recognised as the lines of that Poe's poem he'd recited to her on learning her name.

“It was many and many a year ago,  
In a kingdom by the sea  
That a maiden there lived whom you may know  
By the name of Annabel Lee.  
And this maiden she lived with no other thought  
than to love and be loved by me.”

Would their love be doomed like that of Annabel and her lover? Would the world outside this bedroom envious of the happiness and understanding they'd found in each other's arms snatch away from them this little piece of Heaven on earth?

“What's wrong, Anna?”

“Nothing,”

“No more hiding, remember?”

“It's just me being silly,” she replied in a slightly shaky voice.”I have to get ready. Christine's picking me up in half an hour,” she added, sitting up on the bed.

“She can wait,” he stayed her by leaning forward to press a soft kiss on her lips.”Something's been troubling you these past few days. We promised to be true to each other, Golubushka. I want to know. I need to know it isn't because of … me... or anything I might have done... or say,” he urged her, swallowing the lump which had suddenly lodged in his throat. “Having you here... Holding you in my arms every night, a talisman against my worst nightmares, and knowing you'll be there when I wake up... I can't remember the last time I ever felt so at peace... but there are moments when I feel I'm being selfish... that I'm asphyxiating you... I...”

Annabelle felt like the worst of cowards for not being honest with him because her crippling fear of reality putting an end to their beautiful idyll was doing nothing but making her feel miserable and, at the same time, unfairly exacerbating Lucas' insecurity and slowly healing fragility.

“Please... don't say that,” she cupped his face silencing him.”I hate to see you hurt because of my own foolishness. I chose to stay, remember? And there are no regrets. I will never regret loving you. You've done nothing of which you should feel ashamed.”

“Then... what is it?”

“When... when are you going back?” she finally whispered.

“Going back?” he asked with a puzzled frown.

“I mean... “ she continued, biting her lower lip, “to MI-5. I know you've met with Harry and... you've passed your physical exam with flying colours...”

He touched her face, threading his long fingers through her reddish brown hair, “I might have come a long way since the night you met me, but I'm still seeing the service shrinks at Trig.”

Although it wasn't the answer she'd hoped for, it wasn't the final slamming door she'd been dreading. She welcomed the reprieve, aware that the moment would come sooner or later when he'd have to make a decision.  


*~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *

TWO MONTHS LATER

The invitation to join Tom and his wife for dinner had been extended in the middle of the week and given Annabelle the perfect excuse to indulge herself with an afternoon in a spa and a little shopping spree. With a mischievous smile Lucas had offered to be her own personal changing-room assistant and even tried to bribe her with a promise to donate to her favourite charity twelve months' worth of his eight years' back payment to enjoy such a privilege.

Even though the prospect of trying on underwear and evening clothes with Lucas doing and undoing buttons, clasps and zips was unquestionably enticing, Annabelle had turned him down with a playful comeback, saying he'd reap the rewards of his patience in the privacy of their room later that evening. Besides, not only did she want to spend some of her own money now that she had cashed in her first cheque as a lecturer at Birkbeck, but she was afraid his charitable acts of late would have him on the dole in no time if unchecked.

Friday evening finally arrived and she made her graceful entry into the Quinns' living-room, flanked by her cordial hostess, to find Christine's good-looking husband already entertaining the man that never failed to make Annabelle's heart quicken and her cheeks blush.

Her thinner chequebook was worth the smouldering look in Lucas' eyes when she took off her coat and unveiled the tasteful figure-hugging backless black dress she was wearing. The classic long evening dress with a discreet slit to tantalise the observer with a glimpse of a lovely shaped leg in high heels, not only complimented the sensuality he'd helped awaken but also showed to advantage the delicate softness of the lady underneath.

Tom and Christine were charming and friendly hosts. Unlike his wife, who was helpless with pots and pans, the former Chief of Section D had revealed himself as a surprisingly talented chef. The discovery had delighted their palate and prompted an engaging conversation during which both men regaled the ladies with stories of first-hand culinary experiences gathered during their gap-year travelling the world on a shoestring before joining the service.

“Happy birthday, mate,” smiled Tom, raising his flute of champagne for a toast as Christine presented Lucas with a gift-wrapped box.

“Birthday?” Annabelle glanced at Lucas, embarrassed at her ignorance.”Why didn't you say anything?”

“Because I didn't want you to spend your first cheque on me. I already have everything I need, Golubushka. It's right here,” he told her, brushing her cheek with his knuckles.

“Birthdays are special,” she replied softly. “They're a beautiful gift.”

There was no need for her to say the words. Everyone in the room knew just how precious celebrating life was and how many late friends and colleagues would never get to blow the candles on a cake or unwrap a carefully picked gift with childish glee ever again.

“Go on. Open it,” she urged him with a smile, chasing away the melancholy mood which had suddenly fallen upon the room.

“Tear the paper!” suggested Christine on seeing Lucas' hands undo the glittering ribbon carefully.

“Don't be so impatient, Chris!” exclaimed Tom. “Let him savour the experience,” he added, looking at Lucas' lady with a complicit smile.

Annabelle felt unbidden tears mist her eyes as she observed Lucas' fingers touch the polished surface of the beautifully carved box with quiet reverence before raising its lid to reveal the real gift lying inside, a replica of a Roman rudius.

“I had it made especially for you. I knew it'd be just the thing for a history buff such as yourself... Magnus made me sweat though. I thought he wouldn't have it ready in time. I met him a few years ago when I was working on a case. He's a wonderful craftsman, but he isn't the most reliable when it comes to deadlines,” explained Tom.

“He's a true artist. It's perfect,” replied Lucas visibly touched, cradling in his slightly shaky hands the exact replica of the wooden sword emperors used to give to a gladiator as a symbol of his freedom from the arena. “Thank you, Tom... and Christine. It's the best birthday present I've ever received,” he finished, glancing up to meet his best friend's eyes.

“Oh, I don't know. The night's still young,” chuckled Quinn with a mischievous smile that put a delightful red hue on Annabelle's cheeks.

“Happy birthday, love!” she murmured, pressing a brief kiss on Lucas' lips.

“Lucas, you've got a call,” said Christine, returning to the room with another bottle of champagne and the cordless phone she'd answered in the kitchen.”Harry,” she added in reply to his puzzled frown.

“Another glass, Annabelle?” offered Tom, uncorking the bubbly.

“No, thanks,”she shook her head, covering her flute with her hand. “You've both been so lovely... I'm sorry...” she added, struggling to keep a hold on her emotions as she overheard snatches of the phone conversation she'd been dreading for months.

“Anna... what's wrong?” asked Christine, placing a comforting hand on her arm.

“Nothing breathing some fresh air won't cure... That and a good night's sleep. I'm afraid I've had a tough day at work today and I'm slightly tipsy.”

“Are you sure that's what it is?” queried the blonde American, shooting a glance at Lucas' back in the opposite side of the room, where he was still conversing with the Head of Section D.  


*~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *~ *

She'd walked across the park that separated the main building from the guesthouse and then waited for the front door to close behind her before letting the tears she'd been holding back roll freely down her cheeks.

Navigating the house in the dark she made her way to the bedroom she'd been sharing with Lucas for almost three months now and, without divesting herself of her clothes, she lay down on the duvet in foetal position.

He'd come to the end of the road, made a full recovery. And Annabelle knew she ought to be happy for him and deep inside she was; she loved him too much to wish a life haunted by eternal nightmares upon him. However, the selfish part of her, the one which needed him to need her, was afraid. He might think of her as tough; and yet, she was painfully aware of her insecurities when it came to affairs of the heart.

What would happen now that Harry had communicated Lucas his therapy at Trig was over and that he was ready for active service? For that was what that phone call had been about. Although she hadn't heard her mentor's side of the conversation, she knew Lucas' body language intimately. It had taken one look across the room to learn the truth.

He loved her. She never doubted that. Still, she had seen him work so hard to get where he was now, to earn Harry's trust and acceptance, to regain the place in the world he had lost the moment he stopped believing they would ever break him out of the hellhole he thought would be his final resting place.

He hadn't made any promises and she hadn't asked him for a commitment. Staying had been her choice, one she'd never regret. And yet, he'd known her better than herself.He'd tried to save her the heartbreak, and she had persevered against all odds.

There had been so much loss in both of their lives. They deserved a second chance. They deserved to be happy, but a reactivation was a virtual death warrant, and she wasn't sure she'd ever survive that. Not this time.

“Why did you leave?” he asked softly, spooning her from behind.

She'd been so lost in her own misery that she hadn't heard him come back.

“I'm sorry,” she replied in a quivering voice. “I just... I didn't want to spoil the evening,” she added, hoping the dark would hide the evidence of her tears.

“Christine said you weren't feeling well. “

“It's only a mild headache. I...”

“Anna... “ he said, putting his left arm around her waist and pulling her closer to him, “why did you run away?”

It was foolish to keep making up excuses which belittled both of them. She owed him and them better than that.

“Tom knew, didn't he? That's why he gave you that gift. Your treatment is over and you're going back to The Grid. Harry's call wasn't just him wishing you a happy birthday.”

His warm lips brushed her temple and lingered there for a moment.

“I knew this moment would arrive...” she croaked.

“Why don't you come with me to Thames House tomorrow?” he suggested, tightening his grip on her.

“Is that what you want?”

“We could visit some friends. You might ask Jo and Ros if they'd be willing to put on a bridesmaid gown... while I convince Malcolm to book an appointment at Harry's tailor to have his measures taken for a best man's dinner jacket,” he murmured in her ear. “What do you say, Annabelle,? Will you marry me?”

“Lucas,” she started with a sob.

“Look at me, Golubushka,” he said tenderly. “I'm not going back. I'm not going anywhere.”

“I don't understand.... “

“There are other ways to serve my country. I gave MI5 some of the best years of my life and, in spite of it all, I don't regret it. But what I want is something I would never have or be able to protect as a full-time agent. So what do you say, Golubushka, are you willing to marry a civilian with a nine-to-five job as a security consultant?”

“A security consultant?”

“Tom's offered me a job with him.”

“Oh, Lucas!” she cried, wrapping her arms around him and clinging to him for dear life.

“Does that mean yes to becoming Mrs Lucas North?” he asked with a soft smile.

Overcome by the sudden turn of events, Annabelle couldn't find her voice to give him an answer and, instead, took his beautiful hand in hers and laid her cheek against it.

“I have something for you,” he told her huskily, after pressing a soft kiss on her lips.”Give me your left hand, please.”

She placed her delicate hand in his and felt him slide a ring on her third finger as new tears, this time of happiness, welled up in her eyes.

“I don't want to see you cry any more,” he told her softly, brushing away the moisture with his thumbs.

“I love you so much, Lucas North,” she confessed, leaning against his chest and feeling him encircle her tightly in his arms.

“And I you, Golubushka. I've loved you ever since the moment you stepped into my room like an angel sent from Heaven just to comfort me,” he whispered, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “My little dove,” he breathed into the darkness, “I'm home at last.”

THE END   



End file.
